


Let the Waves Up and Take Me Down: Before

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: I Will Wait for You [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Nextwave (Comic)
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Assassin Clint, BAMF Clint Barton, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barney is a good bro, Bondage, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Barton: Freelance Criminal, Clint Barton’s Spectacular Self Esteem, Clint as a Knight in Tarnished Armor, Clint’s abusive childhood, Clint’s great at making decisions, Cunnilingus, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Murder, F/M, Fellatio, Forced Submission, Frottage, Gender Flipped Penny, Graphic Violence, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Ignored Safeword, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It’s Cliffhangers All the Way Down, Kissing, M/M, Masochism, Mind Control, Office Foreplay, Physical Abuse, Pining, Sadism, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Spanking, Sub Clint Barton, Sub Drop, Undercover with the mob, You’re in the Army now, off screen rape, self-gaslighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Clint has a complicated relationship with subspace.Phil specializes in uncomplicating things.But will Clint prove to be too much of of a challenge?Let’s find out.
Relationships: Barney Barton & Clint Barton, Clint Barton/Darlene "Penny" Wright, Clint Barton/Monica Rambeau, Clint Barton/OMC, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: I Will Wait for You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580395
Comments: 94
Kudos: 327





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well I came home  
Like a stone  
And I fell heavy into your arms  
These days of dust  
Which we've known  
Will blow away with this new sun
> 
> — Mumford and Sons: I will wait for you
> 
> I want to swim away but don't know how  
Sometimes it feels just like I'm falling in the ocean  
Let the waves up and take me down  
Let the hurricane set in motion  
Let the rain of what I feel right now come down  
Let the rain come down
> 
> — Blue October: Into the Ocean
> 
> Please let me know if you see any typos or if there is something to be tagged for that I missed.
> 
> See the Appendices for the Chronological reading order.
> 
> ETA: Please note the Cliffhanger tag. It will be resolved in Let the Waves Up Take Me Down: Now, which is set to start posting in May.

It’s a twisted point of pride for Clint that he doesn’t go Down easy. 

Never has. 

Not even when he and Barns were kids, pushing back against their asshole dom of a father’s Orders.

The trick to it is to let it take you a little way and then slip right past it. It isn’t until years later, after having actually been in an ocean, that he realizes it’s like standing up to a wave. If you stand in front of a big enough wave it will knock you on your ass; and if you’re really unlucky you might get swept up in the undertow and drown. 

No, the secret is to lean into it, dive a little if you have to, and then ride the wave. Practice enough and you can even surf it, keep your balance and master the sea and your fate. 

Barney’s the one that showed him how. He wasn’t a switch, didn’t have a Voice, but that’s not the only way to put a sub Down. Barney would help them practice, six years old and showing his four year old brother the different ways a sub could be forced Down with enough pain, enough fear. Showing him how to take a hit and hit back; to be knocked down without being knocked Down. How to take subspace and twist it to his own purpose; take the weakness and make it a tool; take any amount of pain or fear, turn it around, and make it work _ for _ you instead of _ against _ you. 

Clint just wishes they could have taught it to Mom. 

When Harold Barton couldn’t take enough of his drunken rage out on his sons he’d turn on their mother, forcing her Down as he beat all three of them, calling them disobedient, worthless subs. The old man never forgave mom for not giving him a dom. 

Which is fine. Clint will never forgive him for wrapping their car around a tree and sending his mom to heaven on his way to hell. 

Even if Clint has to sometimes wonder if the old man wasn’t right about him. 

~~~

In and out of foster homes, the Barton boys are labeled ‘bad subs’ early on and they make it a point to earn the distinction. Playing with the dom kids at the orphanage instead of the kinder, gentler, subs; disobeying the nuns at every turn; running away any chance they get. Not to mention all the fist fights with the other orphans. 

They especially thrive on taking down bullies. The bigger and meaner the better. 

This one time a big dom, Troy, tries to Order Clint to his knees. He’s a couple of years older than Barney and just coming into his Voice, trying to prove something to the other kids. 

His first mistake is in targeting Clint. Small even for a sub his age, Troy takes him for easy pickings. 

His second mistake is in pushing Clint to the concrete and trying to punch him Down when Ordering just earns him a sneer and a, “Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

His third mistake is doing it while Barney is around. 

Not that Barney jumps in. He isn’t about to disrespect Clint like that.

Nah, Troy’s beating the shit out of Clint when Barney comes to stand over them and asks, “You gonna let him slap you around like some worthless sub?”

Clint sees red. The next thing he knows, Sister Mary Margaret is pulling him off Troy. The young dom’s nose is broken, he’s missing a tooth, and one eye is swelling shut, though it’s hard to see all of that through the blood. Clint’s mouth tastes like copper, not from Troy’s weak slaps but from having actually bitten the other boy hard enough to make him bleed.

Two days later they run away and join the circus. 

You know. Like you do. 

~~~

As brash as they are, knuckles bruised and clothes patched, no one questions the boys’ claims that they’re doms. It’s even more convincing when Mr. Carson Orders are strong enough that even some of the doms Obey and the boys just laugh. 

It’s with the circus Clint finds his first love: the bow. 

Being part of the show is fine, but practicing is better. He spends any free second they aren’t working or traveling shooting at every available target. 

Shooting takes him to a place that’s like subspace except in all the ways that it’s not. It’s up instead of Down; it’s not surfing, it’s flying. There’s no Sinking. No Falling. It’s rising, lifting, becoming complete. 

It’s his own piece of paradise. 

They’ve been with Carson’s for about five years when they’re pulled into the inner circle and told the truth about the circus. It’s a front; in places with enough people and, more importantly, enough money, they scout out a mark and rob them blind. 

The boys start as lookouts and after a couple of years Barney graduates up to B & E’s with a side of intimidation as needed. 

Barney’s just turned seventeen when out of nowhere, the night before a job, he tells Clint he’s leaving. He’s going to join the Army and go straight. He wants Clint to come with him. 

Clint can’t believe it. Carson’s is their family, more so than Harold and Edith Barton had ever been. And you don’t walk out on family.

“I’m your family, little bro. Not them. Me. But you wanna turn your back on me? ‘S fine! Who needs ya?”

Even with the fight that follows, and it’s a doozy, Barns gives him more than a black eye and Clint gives as good as he gets, “Bus leaves in the morning. You meet me there; you don’t?” He shrugs like it doesn’t mean a thing to him, “Either way I guess we’ll both know who our real family is.”

And Clint is ready to give up his brother, the one person who has always stood by him, when he finds out _ why _Barney’s leaving. 

“Hey, kid! Your brother’s out. That puts you up to bat,” Trick says, pulling Clint into his caravan. 

“What?” Clint asks, his stomach knotting, “What’d’ya need me to do?”

It’s gotta be bad, if Barney refuses to do it. 

Buck Chisholm has been Clint’s mentor since the Barton's early days with Carson’s. He’s the headliner, ‘Trickshot’ above Clint’s ‘Hawkeye’, and everything Clint knows about the bow, he's learned from the veteran performer. He’s the closest thing to a real dad Clint’s ever had. At the very least he’s only ever hit Clint when he had to and he’s not a mean drunk like Dad was. 

“It’s nothing. It’s simple. We just need someone to handle the maid, keep her out of the way, Order her to keep her trap shut; it’ll be easy. Turns out your brother’s nothing but a worthless sub, so it’s gonna fall to you.”

Clint’s world drops out from under him. 

He’s done a bang up job of hiding his dynamic over the years. Even when puberty hit and in addition to growing almost two feet, his hormones seemed to make him sex crazy. He’s managed to keep his dynamic hidden from everyone in the circus and he’s kept his experimentation to townies he’ll never see again. Even then, he never lets himself go Down, not really, never makes it past some kissing (amazing), some hand stuff (he’s still not sure he knows what he’s doing, and he’s positive the doms he’s scened with didn’t), and once a little light Voice play (never again).

And now it’s over. The life he built, that he and Barney built, all gone with one careless word. 

If Trick hadn’t called his brother worthless, maybe it would have gone differently. Maybe Clint would have tried to fake it. There were plenty of ways other than Ordering to keep the maid quiet. 

But that ship has sailed. 

All it takes is that word and he’s eight years old again at St. Ignatius with red clouding his vision. He swings on Trick without a second thought, knocking the older man to the ground, “Nobody calls my brother worthless.”

When he comes to, his knuckles ache and Trick is unconscious. 

“Shit,” he needs to get out of here, “Shit. Fuck.”

Clint sneaks out of Trick’s caravan and into the one he shares with Barney, “We gotta go. We gotta go now.”

“What? Clint what’d’ya do?”

“What I had to. Now come on. We can’t wait for the morning bus.”

Barney, good brother that he is, doesn’t question Clint but instead just grabs his bag and follows. 


	2. Chapter 2

It takes them all their savings to get documents that prove that instead of seventeen year old Charles Bernard and fifteen year old Clinton Francis, submissive brothers, they’re eighteen year old dominant twins Barney and Clint.

It’s worth every penny when they make it to boot camp together.

It isn’t that subs aren’t allowed in the Army; they just aren’t allowed on the front lines. And neither Barton sees themselves ever taking a desk job.

It helps that they aren’t built like typical subs. Clint’s almost as tall and broad as Barney, both brothers sporting the muscle, body control, and savvy they earned over the years with Carson’s.

The Army has strict rules on officers, or anyone for that matter, using their Voice to get results; something about it being unreliable in the field, but it still happens. Personally, Clint thinks it has more to do with doms’ fragile egos.

Their drill instructor is the strongest dom Clint has ever met. Any time he Orders their unit to do something everyone falls in line as quick as blinking.

Everyone except the Barton twins.

Oh, they obey. They just never Obey. They’re careful about it, never smirking or offering even a hint of insubordination. They’re just that fraction of a second slower that tells everyone they’re following orders by choice and not Command.

One day they’re in the mess when some of the doms start crowding a sub from admin, six of them blocking her from the chow line, whistling and jeering.

“Little bro,” Barney says, his voice low and dangerous.

“I see it. Dibs on DeMarco, Gerasimos, and Carlton,” Clint says as they get up and head over.

“No fair, they’re the three biggest.”

Clint smirks, “You wanted them you shoulda called it first, big bro. ‘Sides, I was bein’ generous leaving you half.”

One Barton is formidable, when they work in concert they’re a force of nature; neither one of them know the meaning of the words ‘stay down’— or ‘proportional response’ for that matter. Two days in the stockade followed by three weeks of shit work are more than worth it to see the assholes trip over themselves to treat every sub on base with the utmost respect.

They get told to keep their noses clean and for the most part they manage, keeping the majority of their fights under the radar. But anytime it looks like the odds aren’t even they can’t seem to help themselves, especially when a sub is involved.

They get a reputation for being two of the toughest SOBs the camp has ever seen, with a soft spot for the ‘weaker’ dynamic. Not that anyone with half a brain makes the mistake of referring to subs that way within earshot of the brothers; not unless they want to end up on the wrong side of their vicious tempers (and, more importantly, fists).

Even the new recruits watch the Bartons with awe, especially the ones that get to see the ‘twins’ unleashed violence first hand when the two of them have an ‘impromptu sparring session’ with each other. The higher ups turn a blind eye to the occasional fights between the two of them and the crowds that gather, likely because they profit substantially betting on the outcomes themselves.

The Barton’s reputation follows them out into the field and eventually through Ranger training. They make an excellent team. Clint barely edges Barney out for aim and finesse, but Barney takes the lead in pure patience and brute strength.

Downtime can be a little rough, especially once Clint turn’s ‘21’. He and Barney are the youngest members of their team, and up until then they’re pretty good at making it seem like they’re really missing out by not being able to hit the clubs with everyone else.

Which doesn’t mean they don’t get dragged along to the occasional club with a lax carding policy.

Clint’s only been in the back of a few clubs; usually with Quartermain and Morse, the other two members of their team, who rib both of the brothers for having impossibly high standards. Barney prefers to stick to the bar area, drinking and competing with Clint at darts or pool, or joining forces with Clint to shark the locals, nostalgic for old times. Barney only ever comes with them to the back when he thinks Clint’s has a little too much to drink and needs a babysitter; ushering him out when Clint’s gaze appears to be a little too hungry in all the wrong places.

“Come on, little bro, I think you’ve had enough. You’re not scening tonight; let’s head back to base and leave Two-Bit and Mockingbird to their hunting.”

“Oh, come off it, Trick, aren’t you’re like five minutes older?” Clay asks.

Barney had balked when the team had started calling Clint ‘Hawkeye’, worried that if anyone did any research into the circus someone there would out their real ages, or even worse, dynamics, but by then it was too late. Clint had bragged about some of the stunts he had pulled off as a kid and backed it up with a bow and arrow he cobbled together out of junk lying around the base.

And since Clint never saw a line he didn’t want to immediately cross, he had to push things even further and start calling Barney ‘Trickshot’, his older brother being almost, but not quite, as good as Clint; a jab not only at Barney, but also a ‘fuck you’ to the old man. Unfortunately for Barney, the name stuck.

“S’what makes ‘im m’ big bro. Always lookin’ out f’r me.”

“Yeah. Okay. Maybe your brother’s right. You are in no shape to be dominating anyone tonight.”

Clint laughs, “No dommin’ f’r Hawkeye,” his laughter turning melancholy in the way it can for the truly drunk, “Poor ol’ Hawkeye.”

At least neither of them turned out to be mean drunks, like dear old dad.

“We’ll see you boys back at base, right Clay?” Bobbi offers as Barney steers Clint out of the club.

“Sure thing, Birdie,” Clay agrees.

“You two don’ do anythin’ I wouldn't do,” Clint slurs, mood swinging to maniacal laughter as he waves goodbye with one hand, hanging on to Barney’s shoulder with the other.

~~~

Clint’s drawn to the back room. He’s always been a risk taker and there’s something exciting about hiding in plain sight. When he’s not trading snarky commentary with Bobbi or Clay he tends to stand apart and watch the subs be put through their paces, wishing it could be him.

“How come you don’t ever get a room, Hawkeye?”

“Why, you askin’? Didn’t think you swung that way, Quartermain?”

“Har-D-Har. All I’m saying is that with your looks— You, too, Trick— you could have your pick of subs and yet neither of you ever take advantage of it. It’s a damn shame.”

“Don’t mind Bitty, he’s just jealous,” Bobbi says, setting down a fresh pitcher of beer.

It's a running joke that Clay is the ugly duckling group; something that baffles other members of their platoon; any one of their forward observation/sniper team could be a cover model for Dominants Quarterly.

People tend to assume that the twins on the team are Bobbi and Clint; Barney’s dark auburn hair setting him apart from the three blondes. Bobbi, Clint, and Barney all share deep blue eyes and surprisingly fine features, with smooth skin that has tanned to surfer gold from all the sun on their recent op.

Even though Clay’s blond isn’t as sunkissed as the rest of his team, their time in the desert has brought out the bronze undertones of his naturally lighter skin. He’s as almost as tall as Clint and Barney, 6’ 2” at least, and his features are more rugged; his slate blue eyes are framed by heavier eyebrows and he’s more likely to sport a five o’clock shadow, while the Bartons prefer to stay as clean shaven as possible.

Clay attracts plenty of subs himself, just usually ones looking for rougher trade. Which is hilarious since he’s the bon bon of the group, a bitter shell of arrogance with a soft and sweet center, more likely to wield a feather than a flogger.

“Bite me, Mock.”

“Oh, I know, Birdie,” Clint replies, “Unlike some people, not all of us feel the need to put Down every pretty piece of ass willing to give us the time of day. There’s something to be said about having discerning tastes.”

“Yeah,” Barney chimes in, “It's called being STD free.”

At which point Clay throws a chicken bone at Barney, who catches it midair and neatly pegs Clay in the forehead with it. From there it devolves into a food fight.

With punching.

On the way back to the base, nursing a black eye, Bobbi quietly tells him, “Don’t let Two-Bit rile you up. There’s nothing wrong with waiting for the right sub, Hawkeye.”

“Thanks, Birdie,” Clint says.

A little later he asks quietly, “Hey, Bobbi? How do you know someone’s the right one?”

“You’ve got good instincts, Clint. When it’s right, you’ll know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s earn that explicit rating, shall we?

Clint loses his virginity when he’s eighteen to an amazing dom in her early twenties. He doesn’t go all the way Down for her; it’s something he’s spent his entire life avoiding and the added fear of getting caught keeps him on guard. 

Then again, he’s not even sure that deep subspace is a real thing. He thinks maybe it’s something performative that subs do for their doms. It’s certainly not something he’s ever achieved on his own, even though everything from sub magazines like Cosmo to hardcore porn would have you believe it’s something all subs can do at the flick of a switch. 

He meets her at a civvy club on the other side of the city from where the rest of the squad is on R & R. He likes her laugh, and the gentle way she talks to the subs daring enough to approach her, while being all sharp edges and biting wit when it comes to the few doms foolish enough to encroach on her space. 

He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until she comes over and says, “Hi, I’m Monica. Is this seat taken?”

Monica is tall and dark, with thick mahogany locs, held away from her face by a wide white headband, that fall to her shoulders. She’s wearing a pristine white suit without a shirt, showcasing deep ebony skin that glows under the neon bar lights, and her espresso brown eyes are flecked with hints of green. She has a measure of confidence above and beyond what he’s seen in the other doms at the club, and her voice matches. It’s smooth and rich with a touch of southern twang, like a well aged bourbon, and he wants to go to his knees for her right there at the bar. 

“Uh. Um, no. No, it’s free.”

“And what’s your name, sugar?” 

“Cl— Cliff.”

“Cliff?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay, sweetness, if you say so.”

“I do,” Clint says with a confidence he doesn’t feel. She doesn’t buy it, but also doesn’t push it. 

“Are you looking for a scene, boy?”

“I— How could you tell?” He asks, flustered. 

“That you’re a sub, or that you’re thirsty for it?”

He swallows and glances away, feeling his cheeks warm, “Both?”

Clint knows what he looks like, tall and muscular, in a heather grey form fitting Henley and tight blue jeans, his piercing eyes, quick smile, and an instinctive need to project _ domdomdom _ mean that he’s been approached by more than a few subs. He’s managed to be polite, if direct, in turning them down; it’s a skill he has practiced over the years. 

He wishes he had half their courage. He can jump out of an airplane into the pitch black night with nothing to guide him but the sound of gunfire and yet the thought of asking for what he wants has him shaking in his boots. 

“For one, you’ve had a steady stream of subs offering themselves up on a silver platter, not one of which has interested you in the slightest; for two, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off of me; and for three, I’ve never seen a boy with as much pent up _want_ in all my life,” she leans closer, and for a second he thinks she’s going to touch him, to place her hand on his knee or maybe something bolder but she hangs just slightly back, building the anticipation, “Now. Tell me I’m wrong, tell me you’re not interested and we can call it there, maybe have a pleasant chat and get to know one another; or, tell me you’d like to be mine for the evening and we can get a room right now.”

Clint’s jaw drops and then before he can let his doubts take control he says, “Yeah, that. I want that. The, um, the second one.”

“I’m going to need to hear you say it, Cliff.”

“I..,” he starts off weakly, but takes a couple swallows of his beer and finishes with his voice steady, forcing himself to meet her eyes, “I want to be yours for the night.”

“Ma’am.”

Clint can feel himself blush to his roots and he has to look down as he says, “I want to be yours for the night, Ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

He feels the edges of subspace lap at the shore of his senses, and it feels good. His pulse picks up and he licks his lips in nervous anticipation, peering at her through his eyelashes, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“This way,” she says, slipping off her stool. 

Clint looks around subtly as they make their way over to the door to the back rooms; it doesn’t look like anyone is paying any attention to them. 

Monica takes care of the arrangements, getting a key and then taking him by the arm and escorting him through the door. There’s a short hallway that lets out into the public playroom.

She leads him through the room, past a couple demonstrating some advanced shibari techniques, their sub suspended in an elegantly complicated web of knots, and a sub on display in a stress position, tears running down into his thick beard and his sweat beaded limbs trembling, open and exposed to the hands and eyes of every passing dom. 

Clint shies away from the corner they pass where a sub, nowhere near as big as Clint but still unusually large for a submissive, is being whipped by his much smaller dom; Clint doesn’t flinch at each crack of her whip, but only through sheer willpower.

Monica moves her hand from his arm to the small of his back, keeping her touch light but unyielding. Clint’s paranoia at being seen by someone who might know him, as slim as the chance may be, is warring with his visceral need to go Down. 

The sound of the lock behind him is loud in the private room after the noise of the rest of the club. He’s never been in one of these and he’s expecting something more sordid, maybe shag carpeting, red lighting, and a mirrored ceiling. Instead it looks more like a standard hotel room. The king sized bed is set prominently in the center of the room, quick release restraints at the corners and center of the bed frame. There’s a loveseat in one corner and a sturdy looking spanking bench in the other that makes Clint’s mouth water.

Monica is watching him take it all in with greedy eyes, “You haven’t scened at a club before, have you, boy?”

“No, Ma’am,” Clint pauses, “Um. Should I kneel?”

“Come here, sit with me a bit,” she moves to the loveseat and pats the cushion next to her. Once he’s sitting she takes his hands in hers, rubbing her fingers on his pulse points. 

“Marines?” She asks and holds him in place when he tries to jump up.

“What! No, I… this was a— I should go,” he stammers. 

“_Sit still_,” she Orders and primed as he is it washes over him and even with his natural resistance it settles him, “You don’t have to tell me any details, alright?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, hiding his fear of being forced Down in his sulking tone. 

_ ‘Barton, you dummy. You want this_,’ he chastises himself, ‘_Let it happen.’ _

“I’m not going to out you, but Cliff, if we’re going to do this I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that, baby?”

He bites his lip, conflicted. He knew this was a bad idea. What had he been thinking.

“Let’s start small, tell me the truth, this isn't just your first time at a club, is it?”

“No, Ma’am,” he says softly.

“_Thank you_,” she Says, “I can tell that was hard for you.”

Oh, fuck, her Voice feels good. He feels the wave of subspace spill over him and he dives Down.

“Oh, sugar, that was fast. _ Come back up _ for me, please.”

“Wow,” his eyes full of wonder; the room seems brighter, colors sharper, “Is it always like that?”

“Not always. How long’s it been since you’ve been Down? I mean, really Down?”

“I don’t— It’s not safe. The Rangers are my life. If they found— Oh shit!” He realizes too late what he’s said and he struggles in her grip, “Oh shit, oh fuck. I’m so fucking fucked. Why am I so fucking stup—”

“_Shhh_, none of that, now,” she says, cutting him off, placing his hands firmly but gently on his knees, and giving him a look that says ‘_s__tay’, _“I’m not going to out you. Anything that happens tonight stays between you and me, okay?”

It’s the sound of her Voice more than anything that calms him, and he relaxes his shoulders and says, tentatively, “Okay.”

“First, some ground rules. I need to be able to trust you to safeword if you need to—”

“I won’t need it.”

“_No,_” Monica chastises him and this time hearing her Voice is like sitting in a chair that’s tipping over backwards, an unpleasant swooping Fall, and he wants to beg her forgiveness but he bites down on the urge, gaining back some measure of control over himself. 

“If I can’t trust you to let me know if somethin’s wrong, then we stop right here right now. If you get too uncomfortable, or too scared, or even if you just need a second to catch your breath I expect you to ‘yellow’. If you need to stop you will ‘red’. Then we can talk about it and decide if we need to change or end the scene. Can I trust you do that, Cliff?”

He makes a snap decision; he’s always been a ‘leap first, figure out the landing midair’ kind of guy and he’s not gonna stop now, “Clint.”

“Clint?”

“It’s Clint, Ma’am. You said we needed to be honest with each other,” he says, “And you can trust me. I’ll safeword if I need to, I promise.”

“Good boy,” she doesn’t use her Voice, but it still fills him with warmth. 

“What are your limits?”

“I don’t know,” he says quietly, embarrassed at being so inexperienced as to not even know his own limits, and doubly embarrassed by the blush that he can feel.

“Well, at least that’s better than saying you don't have any,” she says, “Let’s take a different approach, what do you like?”

Clint shrugs. He’s not sure what he expected when he came to the club, but this isn’t it. Maybe for a dom to take charge and Tell him what would happen, to tie him down, fuck him, and then leave once they’d gotten what they wanted. 

In his experience that’s just the way the world works. But at this point he’s so desperate for it, for _something_, that he figures it’d be worth it. 

So far Monica is everything he’s hoped for and nothing like he’d imagined. 

“Do you want to be tied up.”

He nods.

“Spanked?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am.”

“Kissing?”

“Yes, please,” Clint loves kissing more than anything, maybe even being spanked.

“Oral?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“For me or you?”

“Ma’am?” He asks in confusion. Clint had assumed she had only meant that she would allow him to go down on her, it’s not like he’s even had time to do something to deserve her mouth on his dick. 

“You heard me, boy.”

Clint licks his lips, a little nervous, wondering if there’s some sort of trap he can’t see, “Both, Ma’am?”

“Is that a question?”

“N… no, Ma’am. Both,” he feels his heart race and he tries to calm it down, just because she asked doesn’t mean it’s something that will actually happen. 

“Intercourse?”

“Um,” he bites his lip.

“Okay, I think that’s enough to go on. In addition to using your safewords, don't be afraid to tell me if you don’t like something. I may not stop, but I will listen. The most important part of any scene is communication. My number one rule is that you be completely honest with me.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Can we start now?”

She clicks her tongue, “Impatient, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“_Good boy_,” Monica says, rewarding him for the cheekiness in his tone as much as his enthusiasm. Clint’s feels the warmth of his submission wash over him. He’s not sub-drunk yet, but he’s close and he wants to get going already. 

“Alright. Let’s get you warmed up. Over my lap, sugar.”

“Ooh! Yes, Ma’am!”

Clint’s never had an over the knee spanking and he’s a little awkward getting into position. Once he’s where she wants him she starts by rubbing one cheek and then smacking it. It’s not really enough, but he tries to hold in his disappointment. She rubs the other one and smacks it. It takes a couple dozen for Clint to start squirming, trying to push his butt up into her slaps, trying to get more.

“What’s wrong, sweetness.”

He stills and says, “Nothing, Ma’am.”

“What’s the rule,” the next slap is quick and vicious and everything he’s been looking for.

“Oh! Thank you, Ma’am! To be honest, Ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“So, lets try that again. What’s wrong?”

“It’s,” he shifts in her lap, “It’s okay but… but I can take more. A lot more.”

“Like this?” She asks with another one of those perfect smacks.

“Oh, yes like that.”

Monica taps him gently, “What was that, I don’t think I heard you correctly?”

“Ma’am,” he says, and when she spanks him again it feels so good he cries out, “Yes! Yes, like that, Ma’am, hard. I want it hard.”

She gives him several more in relentless succession and with each one he Sinks bit by bit.

It’s pretty awesome, going Down without any reservations; not trying to control the wave, just his Descent. 

“I think you’re ready for the bench. You’ve been very good so I’ll give you a choice: pants down, pants off, or naked?”

Clint has his shirt up and over his head before he’s halfway to the bench. 

Monica chuckles and her smoky drawl is deeper, “So eager.”

He looks at her, eyes dilated and slightly hooded, “Is that okay, Ma’am?”

“Very much so.”

He tosses the shirt to the floor and finishes undressing, hopping on one foot and then the other as he takes off his boots and socks. Pushing off his jeans and underwear in one motion he almost stumbles but instead goes with the motion, turning it into a backwards somersault with a twist that leaves him kneeling before her in nothing but his dog tags. 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she says and cups his cheek, bending down to give him a soft kiss on the lips. 

He makes a small sound of want/loss as she pulls away that turns into a full throated groan when she tugs his hair, “Up. On the bench. Let’s see how much you can really take.”

“Oh, God, Yes.”

Monica, “Hmms,” in a contemplative way as he settles in, “Do you think you can hang on for me, or do you need to be strapped in?”

“I don’t _ need _ to be strapped in, Ma’am.”

“But you’d like to be?” She asks with a smile.

He nods. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that.”

He squirms in place, having trouble asking for what he wants.

“Well? If you keep me waiting you won’t get this spanking at all.”

Clint’s breathless as he asks, “Please?” Drifting further Down with the plea. He’s almost as far Down as he’s ever been and they’ve barely started. 

_ “I think you can do better than that_,” Monica says, drawing her nails down his back lightly. 

He shivers as the sensation tingles across his skin, “Please,” he swallows and has to try again, caught up in the feeling of pleasure/shame/pleasure, “Please strap me down, Ma’am.”

“_Good boy_.”

Fuck, oh fuck. There it is. It’s better than being drunk or high, better than anything he’s ever been able to achieve masturbating or in any of his infrequent fooling around when he was growing up. He’s floating in a place where everything is both hazy and crystal clear and he wants to Serve, to Obey, to Belong to Ma’am.

She buckles him in place and then lifts his chin to kiss him deeply, her mouth warm and sweet. He kisses back, letting her control the depth and pace, giving in to the demands of her lips and tongue. 

“I knew you’d be perfect like this.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he slurs. 

“Now. Let’s see how much you can _ take_.”

It’s by far the best spanking he’s ever been given, one that every following spanking will have to live up to. 

By the time she’s switched to the strap his butt’s gone from mildly warm to blazing hot. She has him count each stoke out with a “Thank you, Ma’am,” and he thinks he might die from the pain/pleasure/pain it’s so good. 

He’ll have bruises that he’ll have to hide until they heal and every single one is worth it, a badge of honor for his submission, and while he will mourn their loss when they’re gone he will cherish the memory of them for the rest of his life. 

He spends a few mind-blowing hours Under for her, most of it with his head between her legs, his tongue pushing past her folds to suck her clit as she tells him what a _ good boy _ he is. 

He doesn’t quite remember moving to the bed, the sheets and pillows piled around them. She ties his hands securely behind his back with a length of rope and then lounges into the pillows, pushing him down by his shoulders until his face is hovering over her pussy, he’s on his knees with his burning butt up in the air.

“Please?” He asks, feeling the undertow of subspace swirling him around, something twinging inside him as he begs, “Please, may I taste you, Ma’am?”

“_Again_, sugar.”

He feels that twinge again and recognizes it as a touch of humiliation at being Made to beg; he can’t tell if he likes or not, “Please, Ma’am? Please, let me use my mouth?”

“Mmmm, _ very good, _ sweetness, but I want to hear you one more time, _ I want to hear how much you mean it._”

_ ‘Oh, God,_’ it’s too much and not enough and hurts in a good/bad/good way, “Please, Ma’am? Please? Please let me pleasure you? Please?”

“_Gorgeous_. Alright, _ get on with it boy_,” never has anything meant so much as Ma’am’s permission does in that moment.

“Oh, thank you, Ma’am, thank you!”

Her first orgasm is some time in coming and his dick is dripping uncontrollably when he feels her first shuddering gasps beneath his tongue. 

By the time Ma’am has her second even his well-toned core has started to ache from the effort of keeping just the right pressure on her pussy, not letting his face push against her any firmer than she likes. 

After her third she has him roll over, which presses his bound wrists into his back in the most painfully delicious ways, the satin sheet is cool against his throbbing butt and it hurts in a softer, but just as good, way. She rides his face as she strokes his dick, backing off anytime he gets close to cumming. “_You don’t nut until I tell you to, boy,_” Ma’am Orders. 

She stokes and squeezes, using her other hand to fondle his balls and rub his prostate through his taint and he’s losing his fucking mind by the time her hot, wet mouth finally touches the tip of his dick and he actually screams a little into her folds, shaking his head as he’s overwhelmed, fighting the urge to cum. 

Ma’am doesn’t let him cum until he literally can’t take anymore; she alternates between sucking him down and then working the tip of his dick with her mouth and he’s gasping and moaning around her clit, barely remembering to lick and suck and _ worship_. 

He's trapped between the bed and her thighs; wrung out and strung out and can barely tell up from down and he actually whites out a bit from the force of his orgasm once she finally allows it.

As the bright intensity starts to ebb away she lays down next to him, pulling him to her on his side so that he’s almost laying on top of her, his face tucked into the cradle of her neck and shoulder. He thinks he may sob, he’s sure he can feel his tears as they soak into her skin. 

She cups Clint’s cheek and tilts his head so she can kiss away his tears. She brushes his lips lightly with her own and he kisses her back tasting a mixture of himself and the salt from his tears.

She lets him drift there for a bit, wrapped in her arms arms and trading soft kisses and by the time his breathing and pulse have evened out and his skin has stopped buzzing she tugs at his wrists, loosening the rope, “On or off?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says dreamily.

“That’s not really an answer, sugar,” she says, amusement lacing her tone, “Off, then.”

He pouts and tries to pull his hands away from her, which presses his body more firmly along her smaller frame and he wants to lay across her like a blanket and have her hold him close. 

Ma’am wraps her long fingers around his wrists and holds them in place and he moans, still in the needy, greedy ebb and flow of subspace. 

Maybe this is what all those magazines have been talking about. He doesn’t exactly feel like he’s lost his sense of self, his awareness isn’t completely shot and if he had to he could force himself out of it, but he doesn’t have to and it feels amazing to just float here.

She massages his wrists and asks, “Hands cold or tingling?” Checking like she had throughout their scene. 

“No, Ma’am.”

“Shoulders okay?” She rubs up his arms to his shoulders. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” he practically purrs. 

“The ropes can stay for a bit, then,” she says.

“Oh, thank you, Ma’am.”

“How’s the rest of you doing, sugar?” She starts to knead his neck and then his back. 

“Mmmmmm sooooo gooood, Ma’am.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. You let me know you need anythin’.”

“Kisses?” He begs in a soft voice. 

“Like this?” She asks, with an airy light kiss.

He whispers, “More?”

“Like this?” She says, teasing his lips with hers, and he whimpers chasing her lips with his.

“Please, Ma’am?”

“Like this?” And she licks his lip.

“Please? Please, please?” Shame/pleasure.

“_Good boy,_” she says, just barely using her Voice, and kisses him for real, deep and powerful and the sensations hum through his body. He kisses back, his mouth supple and vulnerable, interspersed with quiet, needy pleas.

He begs her to mark him and she does, leaving bright spots of pain up and down his throat and neck, and on his shoulder.

A while later, once he’s finally out of subspace, he’s a little achy, in more than one way. Monica’s been cuddling him for God knows how long and he’s starting to get uncomfortable.

“Umm, Monica?” He asks, a little embarrassed, “Can I have my hands back?”

“Of course, baby.” 

The rope was looser than he thought, considering how secure he had felt, but he’s still surprised at how quickly the marks start to fade. Then again, she had definitely known what she was doing and knew he was going to have to go back to base. One of the many ways he was lucky to find her. 

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna go,” he says, sitting up on the side of the bed and running both hands through his hair. With the glow of subspace wearing off those moments of pleasure/shame just feel like shame. 

“There’s no rush, sugar,” she says, placing her hand on his hip. 

“No. I know. I’m just. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” 

She sounds overly concerned, in Clint’s opinion, and he snaps, “I’m sure. I know myself, Monica, and I’m fine.”

He gets dressed in short abrupt movements, while she takes his place sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him with too observant eyes. 

He’s almost distracted by how beautiful the contrast is between Monica’s glowing skin and the shine of the satin sheets. He has to firm up his resolve, gritting his teeth against the need to crawl back into bed and let her baby him. 

“At least stay and have some juice before you go?”

“Damn it, I said, _ ‘I’m fine’_,” he growls. 

She sighs and at the sound of frustration in her voice he wants to curl against her legs and apologize, his weakness just making him angrier. 

“Then take a bottle with you,” she says, gesturing to the mini fridge by the door, “I won’t force you to stay, but you’re taking my number. You need me, Drop or not, you call.”

“Jesus. Fine.”

Clint grabs a bottle of Gatorade, but not because he’s Dropping damn it; he just had a lot of very athletic sex, thank you very much. Anyone would need to replenish their electrolytes. It’s absolutely not because he’s some delicate little sub. 

He storms out of the room, angry, and angry at himself for being angry. This had been a mistake. 

Except, no, it hadn’t. 

Even as angry as he feels it was worth it. More than worth it, and he knows he’ll call her the next time he’s stateside. 

When he gets back to base there’s the expected good humored jeering from the team over him finally ‘cracking his whip’.

“Nice marks, little bro,” Barney says, and if his grin is a little too knowing only Clint can see it. 

“Yeah, yeah; bite me.”

“Haven’t you been bitten enough?”

“They must have been real wild cat, Hawkeye,” Bobbi teases. 

Clint can feel himself blush and he hates it. 

“Where you able to get them to them beg? It doesn’t always happen your first time. Did you make them cry? Did you show them who’s boss?” Clay asks. 

“Go to hell, Clay.”

“Clint, you didn’t just leave them afterwards, did you? You know subs need a lot aftercare; they can be fragile after a good scene, sometimes you have to handle them with kid gloves.”

Each comment reminds him of how weak he had been, how needy, how _ submissive_. He feels more and more nauseous until he finally snaps at them, “Fuck off, I know what I’m doing.”

“She’s right, bro; aftercare is important, cuddling, hydrating— Do you need a checklist?”

“Yeah, you can’t fuck that up, it really messes with them if you don’t take care of ‘em right.”

“Fuck you, Clay; fuck all a’ya”

“Come on, Clint—”

Bobbi’s been watching him with too observant eyes and cuts off Clay, “Back off, assholes, can’t you see he’s in Top Drop?”

“Fuck that. I’m not Dropping. I don’t Drop.”

“Shit. That’s rough,” Clay says and claps him on the shoulder, “Want to talk about it?”

“Fuck no!” Clint snarls, shrugging him off. 

“Oh, thank God.”

“Don’t worry about it, y’all,” Barney says, “I’ve got this.”

“Fuck you, Barney Barton,” Clint says, pointing aggressively at his brother. God, he wants to deck the smug bastard, “I told all a’ya, it’s not a Drop. ‘M not weak and I don’t need your help.”

Barney takes care of Clint anyway, Clint fighting it the whole time and Barney sticking with him no matter how much he tries to push him away. 

It’s what family does. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes Clint’s safeword being ignored and off screen rape and abuse.
> 
> I’m trying to post a chapter every Tuesday, but since this one is short I will probably post the next one sooner.
> 
> Is weekly a good update schedule? I’m making enough progress on the end that I could probably boost that. Let me know in the comments what a good posting schedule sounds like to you.

They can’t all be winners. 

“That’s it, take it,” the dom says, the flogger spreading lines of pain/pleasure across Clint’s skin, “Cry for me and maybe I’ll let those cocksucker lips wrap around my dick.”

Clint debates yellowing; it’s not the first name he’s called Clint, and they keep getting tougher. Clint explicitly said no name calling or verbal abuse during the quick negotiation, but the dom hasn’t been that bad, not really. Clint needs to just suck it up. 

There’s no such thing as a perfect scene. 

“That’s it, you dirty little slut, _ go Down _ for me,” the flogger feels so good against his chest, but the words twist something in Clint’s stomach.

This is the last time he picks up some rando at the club. Or at least it’s the last time he ignores the little voice inside that says he can do better. 

Although, can he? Monica’s the only dom who’s ever looked at him as more than a sub in need of breaking. Dominants take in his size and his demeanor and assume he’s the type of sub that can take, and wants, a lot of abuse. Sometimes it’s even worth the trade off if they can get him where he wants to go. It’s not like he’s ever been able to reach subspace on his own.

Fuck it. “Yellow, Sir.”

“You’re going to take it and you’re going to like it. Sluts like you need to be hurt. Need to be used.”

“God damn it, I said ‘yellow’.”

“And I said you're _ going Down, slut_,” Kyle or Chad or something frat bro like that says, and if anything increases the speed and pressure of the flogger, the thudding stings becoming more painful in that oh so good way and Clint has to have the worth it/not worth it argument with himself again. 

“Red!”

“You know you need it, slut; you need someone who can show you your place, _ now take it._” 

“Red! Please. Red, Sir.”

He still doesn’t stop and, fuck, the flogger feels so good. 

Is the dom right? Does he need someone to show him his place? Is that what has always been missing, even from his scenes with Monica?

No. No, Clint said, ‘_Red_’; that means stop and he’s not stopping. 

So. This is bad. 

“Fuck you!” Clint growls, turning his fear into anger and pulling at the belts that have him secured, naked, facing outward, on the St. Andrew’s cross. The dom’s Voice is strong, but even with being halfway to Down from the admittedly fantastic flogging it isn’t enough to make Clint go anywhere he doesn’t want to go. A minute ago he wanted nothing more than to go Down and now he wants it to stop. 

He really is a terrible sub. 

“Look asshole, I’m safewording. This is me using my safeword. Let me go.”

“You like it, slut. Look at how hard you are. You know you want this.”

God, no. There isn’t anything he can do if Kyle/Chad doesn’t let him go. He thinks he might be sick. 

“I swear to God, I will murder you if you don’t let me down right now.”

The malice in Clint’s voice breaks through where the begging and the anger hadn’t and the beating stops abruptly, “What? No, wait. We can’t stop now.”

“We’re done. Let me go.”

“Come on, angel face, don’t be like that. We’re having a good time, aren’t we?” Kyle/Chad says, trying a different track. He lightly trails the ends flogger over Clint burning chest. 

Clint shivers and for a moment he wants to; wants to ignore the steady growing pile of red flags, the way Kyle/Chad keeps going too far and then backing off only to do it again, “Yeah, we were, but you fucked it up. I told you, I don’t do name calling.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, baby. You were hurting so good for me, I just wanted to help you Down,” he cups Clint’s cheek and says, “Don’t you want to go Down, angel?”

Clint blows out a breath. Maybe he’s overreacting. The dudebro did back off once Clint made it clear he was serious. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. Not like that. I want this to be fun for both of us. Please, give me another chance?”

“Let me off this thing and I’ll get in another position,” he may even mean it; Kyle-Chad is in good shape, 5’10”- 5’11” and if his muscles are more for show than tell he still uses them well, but he’s no match for Clint if they go toe to toe. Maybe Clint just needs to be more careful about who ties him up and how. He may enjoy it more than getting smacked around, but unless he knows he can get himself out of it, it’s probably better not to risk it. 

Though if he can get out of it, what’s the point?

And they _ were _ having fun. The dom has an amazing sense of rhythm and hits just the right kind of hard enough. 

“But you look so good like this, angel,” he says and pulls lightly at one of Clint’s nipples and he feels it go straight to his dick, which has stayed hard the whole time, the traitor, “I promise, no more mean names. I know you want this as much as I do.”

Kyle-Chad twists his nipple and Clint cries out as he feels subspace lurch closer, “Ohh! O-okay. Okay. But I ‘Red’, you stop, right?”

“Of course, baby, of course.”

Clint should have known the asshole lied. 

~~~

When he gets back to the base he has a black eye and a split lip, and fist shaped bruising all over. He tells the team he got jumped and they believe him, though Barney looks like he has his suspicions. 

Even worse is that he feels like shit for days afterward, though he’s able to power through it. 

He knows one thing for certain, that’s the last time he goes Down without being in complete control. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint commits violent murder. It’s… it’s bloody, y’all.

Clint and Barney are riding high on the world; life is even better than it had been in the early days with Carson’s, when the big top still held its magic and every day was an adventure. 

It’s only a matter of time before it all goes to hell.

An op goes sideways; nothing they can do, it happens to the best of them and at least their team gets out alive. 

They’re plenty beat up, but it’s nothing a few weeks forced R & R at the military hospital won’t fix. Unfortunately, an ambitious nurse runs a full blood panel on all of them. The Bartons’ Marston factors come back negative, so he runs it again just to be sure. 

Screwed over once again just for being subs. 

After their Dishonorable, they try to freelance, but Barney never really has the heart for it. Or lack thereof. When an FBI recruiter approaches them with an offer of a clean slate and a steady paycheck, Barney takes it. 

Clint goes in another direction. 

Barney gets job security, health insurance, and a pension. 

“And,” he says, “A moral compass.”

Clint gets freedom. 

“Morality is overrated, big bro.”

Without Barney’s more stabilizing influence, Clint starts taking riskier and riskier jobs. Sometimes it isn’t even about the paycheck but rather the sheer thrill of putting his life in the balance and coming out on top. 

It doesn’t take long for Hawkeye to get a reputation for being able to both dish out and take pain like no one else in the game, to get where others can’t, to always make the hit, no matter how impossible. 

That’s how he gets the Russo job.

Billy Russo is one of the Maggia’s most notorious bosses, having risen up the ranks as a Costa headhunter; known not only for his brutality, but his paranoia. Up until recently he’d been considered a bit of a rabid dog, but one on a tight leash. 

It seems as that leash has been broken, most notably in that he’s begun targeting the subs and children of his rivals. In retaliation, those rivals have sent over half a dozen hitmen after Russo. The lucky ones were only tortured for couple days before being put out of their misery. 

Clint picks up the job from the dark web and it’s two weeks of encrypted messages and one high risk meeting to get all the terms agreed on and then another three weeks for things to fall into place. 

It’s going to take a lot of time and patience; Russo hasn’t left the safety of his New York penthouse since he made capo and he keeps well away from the windows. There’s no way to get to him from outside the building without enough explosives to take the whole thing down, which is not the kind of attention or collateral damage Clint wants.

Russo never has a meeting without at least two of his incredibly loyal doms present and is always armed, with both a pistol and a Voice so strong it's said that he successfully Ordered Alexander Bont, no light weight himself, to shoot his sub and then swallow a bullet. 

Clint gets hired on to be one of Russo’s button men, going under as Bruno the Mute; unless he misses his mark (Which, have you met him?) it’s the only way to get close enough to take the bastard down. 

Bruno is the cover he uses when he needs a verifiable resume and a solid way to pass as a dom. Built up out of jobs over the last couple of years, Bruno specializes in knife work, liking to get up close and personal with his victims. Rumor has it that in his early days when Bruno the Butcher’s throat was slit with one of his own knives he used his blood to choke the mark to death. 

Never let it be said that Clint was above letting a colorful lie do his work for him. 

His first couple of jobs for Russo are arranged through cut outs and burner phones and are pretty straight forward. Murderers and rapists, they’re the types of jobs he would have gladly done as Hawkeye, albeit in a much cleaner fashion than he does as Bruno. 

Then Russo has him go after Harriet Hawkins and her sub, Melissa Lawerence. She’s deep into the drug trade and is as callous with her sub as she is with her mules. Not that that’s surprising, since that’s how she found Melissa. 

Melissa had the bad luck to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. A runaway from a drunk and abusive father, one of Hawkins’ runners found Melissa living hand to mouth on the street. The tiny brunette became one of Hawkins’ youngest drug mules in exchange for a hot meal and a roof over her head. After first using her body as transport for the poison Hawkins peddles, Melissa traded in but not up to become Hawkins’ collared submissive. Based on Clint’s research off the street and into Hawkins’ bed was a frying pan/fire scenario.

If it weren’t for Carson’s, that could have been Clint or Barney. 

He calls Barns first to make arrangements.

“Go for Barton.”

His brother answers his secure line like a douche.

“Hey, guess what?” _ Miss me? _

Barney sighs, “What?” _ I never miss. _

“Chickenbutt.”_ That’s my line. _

That gets him a tired chuckle, “What’d’ya need, little bro?” _ You know I love you, but you’re a pain in my ass. _

“Spare the price of a cuppa coffee for a fellow American down on his luck? You know how it is.” _ I need a favor. A WITSEC favor. _

“You in town?” _ Where are you _?

“For a hot minute. Work’s keeping me busy,” _ New York. I’m going to be murdering someone, so your Fed pals ain’t invited. _

“Same place?” _ I’m not an idiot, Clint. Brooklyn’s? _

“Yeah that’d be good. I may have friends that want to tag along, but I’m gonna let them know it’s just family. Nine? Ten?” _ I think I'm being watched. I need to be sure I’m not followed; it may take a bit. _

“Nine. Can’t be out too late. Simone and the kids worry.” _ Any later and Simone will have my balls— Not in a fun way. You know she keeps nagging me about having you over for dinner to see your nephews. _

And doesn’t that just blow him away every time. Barney Barton collared to a dom with two— No, three, Simone’ll have had the baby by now, _ three _ rugrats.

“Yeah, yeah. See you soon, big bro.” _ No way, she terrifies me. See you tonight and we can deal with my murder and getting the target out alive. I love you, too, asshole. _

~~~

Melissa is gagged and bound six ways to Sunday, strapped securely to the bed, when he comes up behind Hawkins, a shadow separating from the deeper darkness of the room. He’s in head to toe black, his balaclava covers his mouth and his mask obscures his eyes. 

She tries to warn her Mistress, her eyes wide as she struggles and screams around the gag. If Hawkins had been the type of dom to give her sub a hand signal or a bell to drop, not to mention the type to honor a safeword, she might have stood half a chance. 

“We’ve barely started and you’re already this worked up? I’d planned on making this last. How did I end up with such a worthless slut?” The statuesque brunette sneers. 

Clint had intended to knock the mobster out, get Melissa downstairs to where Barney is waiting to take her into custody, and give himself time to lay out some plastic sheeting and set up a kill room before slitting Hawkins’ throat, quick and neat. He’s never been one to play with his kills; he almost has himself convinced that it’s some small sliver of proof that he isn't as bad as the monsters he hunts. 

Instead, in a white hot flash of rage he grabs Hawkins’ face and cuts her throat then and there, the spray of blood arcing out to cover Melissa and soaking the bed; then he stabs the knife into her side and tears it across her abdomen, spilling Hawkins’ guts to the floor before dropping her body on top of them. 

He stands for a moment, breathing heavy as he gets control of himself. 

“Fuck.”

He hadn’t meant to do that. 

“Fuck!”

He’d thought he had better control of himself than this. One stupid word shouldn’t have this much power over him. 

He can’t let it. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Melissa,” he tells the terrified sub who’s muffled screams have become hysterical. At the sound of her name her thrashing becomes an uncontrollable shudder. 

She shakes her head frantically, nearly hyperventilating as he comes closer and raises a gloved finger to his lips, “Shhh, I’m not going to hurt you but I need you to be quiet. Can you do that for me, Melissa?”

She clenches her fists and swallows, tears running down her cheeks as she nods. 

“Good girl. That’s real good. I’m going to take out the gag, but if you scream, I’ll have to put it back in. Nod if you understand,” the room is soundproofed, but he needs to get her downstairs to a waiting Barney without drawing any attention. 

She nods again and as soon as she’s free of the gag she starts begging, “Please, please don’t kill me, Sir? I won’t say anything. I swear. Please let me go? Please, Sir, I’ll be good? Please? Please, please, please,” she says in a litany of pleas.

“Shhhh, shhh. I’m not going to kill you,” he says, ''I'm sorry, You weren’t supposed to see that.”

She trails off with a confused look of disbelief, “Sir?”

He’s not sure if it's a good thing or bad thing that Hawkins hadn’t pushed Melissa Down yet. If she were already under she probably would have done whatever Clint asked without question, but this way there’s a chance that she can be reasoned with and won’t cause any trouble for Barney down the road. 

“I have a contact with law enforcement. He can get you into witness protection. You’ll need to stay in hiding for a while and they’ll want to know everything you know about Hawkins’ business. You'll probably have to testify against her associates. Do you think you can do that, Melissa?”

She nods slowly, wide-eyed, “Yes. Yes, Sir.”

“Good. That’s real good. Now I want you to lie still while I undo these straps.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Once she’s free he helps her up from the bed; watching warily in case she tries to make a break for it or attack him, but she’s so beaten in body and mind that she just passively follows where he leads. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, guiding the poor naked sub to the bathroom, “I want you to take a quick shower while I make a call.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

He checks the shower making sure there’s nothing she can use to hurt him, or herself for that matter. 

While any of the typical shower items would be a weapon in his hands, he trusts his instincts. He isn’t going to let his guard down but chances are pretty slim that she’ll attack him. If she believes him, or even wants to believe him, about WITSEC this is her chance to escape from the Life entirely.

While she’s scrubbing the blood off, he makes a call, burner to burner.

“Barns.”

“Clint? What’s wrong?”

“I fucked up. Hawkins is down, but it's a mess. The bedroom’s a bloodbath and I’ve got the sub cleaning up now. I’ve managed to keep my DNA out of it, but there’s no way this will look like a robbery gone wrong now.”

“Jesus, Clint. I’m not sure how much protection I can get you. You know this going to skip right over NYPD to Violent Crimes; they’ve been trying to get her on half a dozen RICO offenses for years.”

“This won’t fuck things up for you, will it?”

“Nah, I’ll get some flack for not notifying VC about the tip before checking it out myself, but I’ll chalk it up to CounterInt paranoia.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure word gets around the proper channels on my end that the hit is Bruno’s handywork and that it’s linked to Russo.”

“What about the Lawerence sub? She gonna be up to testifying? Hawkins is, or I guess was, _ the _ drug importer from Canada and out to all points west. Dismantling her network will be a huge win for us.”

“I think so. She’s pretty shaken, poor sub’s been through hell, but deep down she’s a good kid and she’ll do the right thing.”

“You sure you aren’t projecting?”

Clint snorts, “You know that’s not me.”

“Keep telling yourself that, little bro.”

“Look,” Clint says, steering the conversation back on track, “I’m not asking for you to sanitize this mess, I just need it to get back to Russo that looks like Melissa was killed, too, and that her body’s disappeared. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Think she’ll be okay?”

“She’s gonna need a fuck ton of therapy, but that was true before she watched her Mistress get evicerated.” 

“Jesus Christ, Clint.”

“Gotta go, sub’s almost ready. Down in 10,” Clint hangs up before he can hear what Barney was going to say next. 

“Sir?” Melissa asks, stepping out of the shower and wrapping herself in a towel, the stain of Clint’s sin washed away from her skin, if not her soul.

“Let’s get you dressed, sweetheart.”

~~~

“What did you do with the sub?”

Bruno speaks in raspy whisper, the benefit being the more Clint uses it, the more naturally rough his voice gets, “Had fun. DNA. Burned it.”

Russo’s the kind of scum who’ll see Bruno as a kindred spirit, and while it may turn Clint’s stomach, he can’t deny its effectiveness. 

“I have to say, I saw the crime scene photos and I’m impressed. And I don’t impress easily.”

“Good job. More? Text.”

“Actually, Bruno, it’s time we met in person. Tomorrow night at eight. Come unarmed.”

“Tomorrow,” Clint confirms and then disconnects the call. 

Finally.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not quite midnight local, so I’m still counting this as getting out on time.
> 
> Next Tuesday will be the first Phil Chapter, Cashing in My Bad Luck, be sure to subscribe to it once its available if you want to also follow Phil’s POV.
> 
> The Ones That Come Easy is clicking along at a nice pace, it’s probably 1/3-1/2 complete; once its done the series will be complete and I will kick up the schedule to posting two or three times a week.

Bruno enters the room with an air of contain menace. He’s wearing a black turtleneck, black tailored slacks, and expensive dress shoes with good traction. His head is shaved, his dark eyebrows are in a perpetual scowl and his mouth has a tight look, as though he’s either in pain or planning on causing some. 

“Bruno. Thank you for coming. I hear you’re not one to make house calls.”

Clint stares at Russo, not bothering to glance at his bodyguards, Tiger and Tower. 

Jenny ‘Tiger’ Torres is short for a dom, maybe 5’6”, and as lithe and flexible as her namesake. Her head is shaved and her wide eyes, the same pale brown shade as her skin, take in everything; she’s wound up tighter than a two dollar watch. 

Pete ‘Tower’ Russell is her polar opposite in almost every way, his skin is the color of a moonless night and his eyes are small and dark like a spider’s; his long black hair is in a multitude of smaller braids that have been been braided into a thicker plait that hangs halfway down his back. He moves slowly and deliberately, a brick wall of a dom. 

Russo might just be the most attractive man Clint’s ever seen; he could be a Prada model with his chiseled features, intense dark eyes, and full lips that look almost red against his light skin. 

There’s a not half bad chance that Clint could take all three right now, but not before Russo could call for backup, and at least one of them would be able to get off a shot or otherwise cause grievous bodily harm, which Clint would like to avoid if at all possible. 

Clint also can’t be sure he’ll be able to resist Russo’s Voice and that’s not something he wants to be surprised by. He still hasn’t met the dom would could force him Down, but this would be a terrible time to find that out. 

Russo gives half a laugh, “Or for small talk.”

Clint continues to stare with as much menace as he can muster.

“Alright. Gotta have my doms check and make sure you ain’t packin’. You understand.”

Clint glares at Tiger as she approaches and she takes half a step back, and then he turns to Tower on the other side, who also steps back and asks uncertainly, “Boss?”

“_Bruno_, _ hands out and let ‘em search_,” and there we go, that’s what Clint was hoping for. It’s strong and for a moment it’s almost enough to take him Down but by now it’s more than second nature, it’s instinct to let it flow through and then out from under him. He’s not going anywhere he doesn’t want to go. 

But it will be better if Russo thinks he can control Bruno, and after acting like he’s only able to resist for a second he holds his arms out and lets himself be searched. He doesn’t have anything on him except a money clip thick with cash, some pocket change, and a burner phone. 

He’s tempted to use the change now, he could probably sink a nickel through Russo’s eye and into his brain before his thugs could blink, but then he’d still have to deal with the two of them and he’s sure if he bides his time he’ll get a better chance. 

As Tower finishes patting him down Clint reaches out and grabs him by the throat. He lives up to his name, having at least three inches over Clint’s own 6’3”, but Clint knows how to leverage his body and his knowledge of pain points and he forces the larger dom to his knees. Clint grits out, “Enough.”

Tiger has her gun pressed to the back of Clint’s head in nearly the same second, which gives him a baseline for her reaction time. 

“Now, now, Bruno,” Russo says, “He’s only doing his job. Let him go and we can talk business.”

Clint squeezes Tower’s throat once and then lets go. He glares at Russo, completely ignoring Tiger as if she wasn’t a hair trigger from ruining Russo’s carpet with his brains, “No more Voice.”

“Of course not, of course not. We’re all friends here; I just had to be sure. Man in my position can’t be too careful, you know.”

Clint grunts, leaving it ambiguous as to whether in agreement or merely acknowledgement.

“Please, sit, sit. Tiger, put it away,” Russo gestures to the visitor’s chair, “I have a business proposition for you, Bruno, one I think you’ll like.”

Clint sits in the offered chair and raises an eyebrow.

“I can see you’re skeptical, but hear me out before you say, ‘no’; I promise, it will be worth your while.”

Russo motions to Tiger and Tower and they take up positions just behind and to either side of Clint, nervously checking their jackets to be sure they have easy access to their guns. Which incidentally means Clint will also have an easier time reaching them. 

Clint shrugs and relaxes back into the chair. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for the right time to strike.

“As you probably know, I’m expanding my reach. I’ll finish taking over Hawkins’ racket in a matter of days, and then it’s on to bigger and better things.”

He could act fidgety, grab the change from his pocket to play with as a nervous tick, but that might make one of them suspicious. 

“I’m a very bad dom to make an enemy out of but a very good one to have as a friend. Or as a steady employer.”

He could make a play for Tiger’s gun. She’s to his left, it’d be a cross draw to reach her holster. He could shoot Tiger, then Russo, then Tower; but Russo has a panic button and if Clint’s not fast enough the room will be full of goons before he can make it out the window and up to his escape route on the roof. 

“I’d like to purchase your exclusive services, on a permanent basis.”

Clint doesn’t let his expression change.

“Well, yes, I can see you’re not impressed, and why should you be, I haven’t gotten to what I’m offering in return.”

If he draws and shoots Russo first, then he’ll probably only be able to take out Tweedledum or Tweddledee, but not both before the other one reacts, and that’ll mean getting shot at. 

He hates getting shot at. 

It’s right up there with talking about his feelings and Mississippi in the summer. 

“I’ll pay your standard fee as a weekly rate. The jobs won’t be that often but I can guarantee they'll be at least as fun as Hawkins.”

Still, it might be his best bet. 

What he could really use is a distraction.

“Not to mention, fringe benefits,” Russo presses a button behind his desk and the door opens behind Clint, shuts, and then he hears the lock turn. He doesn’t let himself tense, just waits as if he has all the time in the world; like a snake with nothing more to do than sun itself on a rock and wait for unsuspecting prey to cross his path. 

A gorgeous sub, petite and barefoot in black spandex short shorts, comes up to Russo’s side, kneels, and bows his head, the long copper waves of his hair falling around his face and hiding his brilliant green eyes, “You called for me, Sir?”

Hello, Distraction. 

The dossier Clint had put together on Daryl Wright had been thin, mentioning only the barest of details. Daryl comes from a good family, graduated from Columbia about a year ago, and at that time met Russo at a black tie charity affair; one that the Maggia uses as money laundering front. 

“This is my Lucky Penny. He’s one of my best subs, isn’t that right, Penny?” Russo says, petting Daryl’s head a little too roughly; which seems par for the course, the sub’s peaches and cream skin is liberally marked, the bruising especially dark around his wrists and ankles. Russo’s reputation for not playing nicely with others is well earned. 

“Yes, Sir.”

Rumor has it that the Wrights have tried multiple times to get their son out from under Russo’s influence but either he wants to stay or he’s too afraid to leave. Clint thinks it may have started as the former but has since become the latter. 

“Why don’t you show our friend Bruno how _ good _ you can be.”

“Oh,” Daryl gasp slightly at his Master’s Voice and Clint can see him bite his plump lower lip through the curtain of his hair, his teeth a flash of white against his scarlet lipstick, “Thank you, Sir.”

That word alone would have been enough to warn Clint of the power of Russo’s Voice; even without it being directed at him he can feel it tug at the edges of his senses. 

It’s strong enough that just that one word has Daryl Down below the surface and he crawls towards Clint with languid purpose, his pupils dilated within his smokey eyes and thick lashes, his mouth soft and vulnerable. 

If Clint were a dom, he might have been in trouble. As it is, he still feels his dick start to respond when Daryl slides his hands up the inside of Clint’s thighs and he presses himself up between Clint’s legs. 

“Please, allow me to serve you, Sir.”

All three of the mobster’s eyes are locked on to the sub, and Clint knows this is his moment; he’s pulling Daryl’s head to his lap, getting him out of the way, but before he can reach for Tiger’s gun Russo’s Voice rings out, “_Stop_!”

Everyone freezes, even Clint. _ ‘Shit_.’

“Penny, _ sit_,” Russo snaps his fingers and Daryl sits back on his heels, his palms resting on his thighs and his eyes downcast. 

Clint glares at Russo, thwarted, though not for the reasons Russo thinks. 

“I’ve been wondering, how do you Push a sub Down with your,” he gestures to his throat, “Condition?”

“Skill,” Clint grinds out, fingers itching for a trigger now that he’s so close.

“This I’ve got to see,” Russo says with a sadistic gleam in his eyes, “Penny, _ Up_. _ Now_.”

It’s cruel to force a sub Up so quickly, a surefire way to trigger a Drop, and it’s evident from the tension in Daryl’s body, the stiffness of his spine and the way his nails dig in briefly to his thighs that he was further Down than Clint had thought. 

“Sir?” Daryl cries out in confusion and hurt, but the bastard doesn’t doesn’t do anything to comfort him.

“Show me. Put the slut Down.”

Clint raises an eyebrow and snags Daryl by the arm and dragging him roughly into his lap, facing the sub towards Russo. _ ‘Plan B, need a Plan B, what’s a Plan B _ — _ Got it_.’

This is gonna to suck for Daryl, but it’s the best of the bad options that are available; he doesn’t bother hope for the sub’s forgiveness, absolution for his many sins is something Clint stopped looking for years ago. 

He can’t be going to hell anymore that he already is. 

Clint grabs a handful of Daryl’s hair and pulls his head to the side, wraps one hand around the sub’s narrow waist, and pulls his ass tighter against Clint’s half hard dick which hadn’t gotten the memo that they were switching from ‘I could maybe fuck’ to ‘Time to fight’. He takes a long inhale up Daryl’s shoulder and neck until his nose is at Daryl’s ear, glaring into Russo’s eyes the entire time. Against his will, Clint finds himself growing more aroused at the light scent of the sub’s shampoo.

“Pain,” he says, and bites Daryl’s ear hard enough to bring tears to his eyes and make him catch his breath, then he shivers as Clint growls, “Fear,” and tightens his grip in Daryl’s hair and around his waist before letting go of the copper tresses to wrap his hand around his delicate neck. 

He presses his thumb in to Daryl’s throat just below his Adam’s apple, hard, and as Daryl chokes, Clint whispers, low and gravelly, “Pain.”

Daryl breaks and Falls into subspace, his body relaxing into Clint’s hold, letting him do what he wants. 

“Fear,” Clint says and pushes Daryl to a heap on the floor. 

The doms shift forward, mesmerized as Clint pulls Daryl into position, on his knees bending his body in a backward curve until his face is pointed towards the ceiling. Clint’s exactly where he wants to be now, too. 

“Pain, fear,” Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out a couple coins. He balances a penny between Daryl’s eyes, everyone but Clint focused on the penny. He says, “Stay.”

He looks up at Russo and says, “Pain,” as he flicks the nickel at him, it hits the dead center of Russo’s eye, but it’s not quite hard enough to kill him. He screams, clawing at his face. 

Damn. 

Clint has Tiger’s gun before she can react and he shoots up her body, under her chin and though her head in one smooth movement before turning the gun on Russo and putting two to the body and one to the head.

By now, Tower’s got his own weapon draw and shoots at Clint, missing as Clint executes a rolling dodge, coming up to kick the chair into Tower. He grunts and it throws off his next shot. Before he can get off another Clint’s using the chair as a step up to ram his knee into Tower’s chin; he uses the momentum to flip over the taller man, just brushing the vaulted ceiling as he twists and lands behind him, shooting him in the back twice and then the back of the head. 

Tower’s body falls to the ground with a quiet thud.

There’s no way the rest of Russo’s security didn’t hear the gunshots. He confirms all three kills and then checks on Daryl, the poor sub is shaking but still holding the position. 

“Good,” Clint says, not breaking cover for both their safety, “Up.”

He goes to one knee by the trembling sub. He takes the penny and drops it, helping Daryl sit up straight, he says as gently as he can with Bruno’s voice, “Darryl, Up.”

He tucks Darryl’s hair behind his ear and wipes away his mascara dark tear tracks. Darryl nuzzles at Clint’s hand when he cups his cheek.

They’re running out of time. 

“Daryl,” he says, louder and firmer but still gruff, “Look at me.”

He does so and smiles, “Yes, Sir.”

That’s better. “Come Up.”

“Sir?” 

“Up. Now.”

His eyes come into focus and he blinks sleepy at Clint, “Yes, Sir.”

“Better. All the way.”

Daryl pouts for a moment, and Clint jostles him, “Now, Daryl.”

That’s enough to bring him all the way out of it. Or at least enough to be left on his own. 

“It actually is Penny. Only my parents call me—” Penny cuts himself off with a scream, noticing the bodies. 

“Quiet!” Clint orders, resting his finger briefly on Penny’s lips.

The sub obeys almost instantly, though his eyes are luminous with unshed tears. 

“I go. You stay,” Clint says standing. 

Penny bows down, “Please, Sir! Take me with you?”

“No. Not safe.”

“It’s not safe for me here, Sir,” Penny says, “Please? They’ll fight over me like a pack of dogs.”

Clint grunts and pulls the sub to his feet, “Stay close. I say? You do. Yes?”

“Yes, yes I promise. Thank you, Sir, thank you!” The tears fall from Penny’s eyes and before Clint figures out his intent Penny kisses him. 

And here’s the thing, Clint’s not really bidynamic, outside of one wild night with Monica and her collared sub he’s never even been with another sub, but he loves kissing almost as much as he hates being shot at, feelings, and Mississippi summers combined. He kisses back, pulling the redhead close, losing himself in it for far too long.

Kissing another sub is different from kissing a dom, softer, lacking the aggressive push and pull Clint’s used to. Penny is sweet and warm in his arms, and he might have kept right on kissing him if he hadn’t heard someone in the hallway. 

_ ‘Barton, you dummy; way to think with your dick.’ _

He breaks the kiss, “Follow.”

“Anywhere,” Penny says, breathlessly. 

He tries not to let that trouble him as he searches Russo’s body. He finds the keys to the security bars, it will be much faster than trying to pick the locks, and lets them out onto the fire escape.

“Up.”

Penny shivers either from the cold or fear, probably both, and bravely starts climbing, “Yes, Sir.”

He’s climbing one handed and Clint realizes he’s got the penny clenched in one fist. Clint wants to question him, to figure out what’s going on his head, but since it doesn’t seem to be slowing Penny down, he lets it go for now to focus on getting them the hell out of here. 

It’s not nearly as easy with the sub tagging along, but eventually Clint’s confident that they’re safely away. Penny doesn’t recognize where Clint’s been leading him until they’re there, standing in front of the doors to the Wrights’ building, the doorman eyeing them suspiciously. 

“How did you...? I can’t. I can’t let them see me like this. What I’ve become.”

“Shhh.” Clint says, “Home.”

“It’s not— I’m not. I’m not the person I was.”

“Safe.”

“But what if they hate me—”

Clint shakes his head, “Love you. Family.”

Penny’s eyes shine and he asks, “Will I ever see you again?”

Clint smiles sadly, “Not if lucky.”

He sobs and wraps his arms around Clint, pressing a kiss to Clint’s cheek and then says, “Thank you. Thank you, you saved my life.”

Clint pulls away, touches a finger to Penny’s lips and tells him, “Live it well.”

Clint’s unable to stop himself from replacing his finger with a long, deep, goodbye kiss and then before Penny can say another word he’s gone. 

Penny stares after him, one hand reaching out, the other clutching the penny to his chest. 

~~~

Clint has a steady stream of work, including jobs Barney throws Clint’s way now and then, usually when the FBI doesn’t want to involve the CIA or when even black ops aren’t off book enough for his superiors. Clint sees more than his fair share of politically protected war criminals, often genocidal, and human traffickers who’ve tortured and killed every spook that’s gotten close. 

Clint returns the favor whenever the opportunity arises. Well, at least as long as he still gets paid. 

If a hit comes up and something feels off he gets word to his brother and the mark disappears, into either WITSEC or something a little more creative depending on the situation. 

Clint doesn’t ask. The less he knows, the better. 

So far Clint’s instincts haven’t been wrong; those marks always end up being good folks who got on the bad side of the wrong people, and it lets Clint feel like maybe he isn’t as amoral as he thinks. 

Life is good, and a couple more years and he’ll be able to buy a private island and retire. 

Of course, all that goes out the window after meeting Restraint. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As meet-cutes go, it could be worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Clint briefly gets physically sick to his stomach.

The first couple of jobs are cakewalks. 

Arranged through dark web message boards, Clint never gets more than a few words and a bank account number. Once the kill is confirmed and the funds released Restraint goes radio silent. 

It drives Clint nuts that he can’t find anything on them. They’re like a ghost. None of their posts can be traced past a couple of relays and there’s no pattern to the marks, no common thread other than that they are truly awful people. 

Most of the time Clint doesn’t really feel anything about a job. He’s a killer, he owns it. But there’s a certain gratification when they’re objectively bad people. And Restraint’s targets are the worst of the worst. 

After each kill Clint feels more than just the grim satisfaction at a job well done, of being able to flex his unique skill set. He feels like maybe he’s actually doing something good in the world. He understands a little better why Barns went legit. 

Clint begins obsessively scouring the message boards, stalking Restraint, snatching up their jobs before any of Clint’s competitors get wind of them. The jobs get progressively harder and Clint finally feels like he’s living up to his full potential, that he’s able to stretch his wings and push himself to the limits of his abilities, and in some cases beyond what he thought possible. He feels truly, deeply, _ viscerally _ alive. 

Six months in and they’ve set up a direct message system through the electronic dead drops. A couple months after that he gets a message he’s seen before from other contacts, but never Restraint. 

**F2F? ASAP. **

A face to face? Clint thinks about it for maybe a second before replying. 

**I’m in.**

**~~~**

Odessa’s cold this time of year, which is to Clint’s advantage. Bundled up as he is, even if someone was looking for him they wouldn’t recognize him. He unwinds his scarf but leaves his face partially obscured as he comes in from the cold. 

There. Where he said he’d be. In the shadows of the back corner’s c-shaped booth, a white man with dark brown hair wearing black suit and tie and a warm looking long leather coat with matching leather gloves. Restraint’s surprisingly warm hazel eyes meet Clint’s baby blues with an intense look from across the bar before taking a drink from his tumbler of golden liquor. Clint feels an uncharacteristic flash of panic. 

Fuck. Does he know Clint is Hawkeye? 

No, he can’t. He was probably just flirting with a pretty blond, passing the time until his contact arrives and maybe pulling a scene for later. 

Clint swallows down his nerves. He’s already here and if it’s a trap it’s a well laid one because Clint doesn’t see anyone else taking notice of him or his contact, and Clint sees everything. Clint would, and may have, bet his life that no one is watching the club from the outside. 

Clint works his way across the room, trying not to make his destination obvious. When he gets to the table he sees Restraint run the first two fingers of his right band around the edge of his glass as he asks, “Looking for someone... special?”

He could still just be flirting with Clint, so Clint is precise with the counter sign, tapping his watch three times and saying, “I think he’s running late.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Restraint replies, picking up his glass left handed, taking a sip and then setting the glass back down, “Traffic is a bear tonight.”

“Care to keep me company while I wait?” He asks, pulling off his scarf and folding it in half twice.

“Hawkeye,” Restraint gestures with an open palm, inviting Clint to sit. 

“Restraint,” Clint says with a slight nod and a playful smile.

A waitress places a bottle in front of him as he sits down and he feels that warning flash again. Every instinct screams at Clint to run, that this is too dangerous, that he’s taking too big a risk, that there is no way this man should know what he looks like or his favorite beer. Maybe it was just the safe option. No one would ever accept an open drink in this situation, and it’s a pretty popular brand. 

Restraint murmurs something to the waitress in Ukrainian and hands her a couple larger hryvnia notes while Clint unbuttons his coat, smoothing it out behind him and using the movement to cover touching the gun at the small of his back in an uncharacteristic need for reassurance. 

The dom— everything about him screams _ dom_, and even if it hadn’t Clint only knows of a few other subs in their line of work; though it’s possible there are more that are just as good at hiding it as Clint. The dom does Clint the courtesy of ignoring the nervous gesture. 

“I asked her to give us some privacy.”

It’s quieter in the corner than in the rest of the bar, and Restraint has arranged it so that neither of their backs are to the room and both of them have clear sight lines not only to the front door but also to the hallway leading to the kitchen, bathrooms, and play area. 

It also puts him close enough to Restraint to smell his aftershave. It’s distinctive, a clean and subtle fragrance that reminds him of coffee percolated over a cherrywood campfire.

As much as all his warning bells are going off, something inside him weirdly trusts the guy. Restraint is calm and collected without the creepy detachment Clint normally sees in this business and Clint feels his wariness ease. 

Honestly, if Clint didn’t know any better he would have said he was sitting next to an accountant or banker. Maybe a low rent stockbroker. Everything about Restraint marks him as someone who works with other people’s money without having much of his own. That he’s just a mild mannered flunky. 

Everything except his expensive black leather gloves and the knowing spark in his eyes that says he sees more than he will ever reveal. It’s a look Clint sees every morning in the mirror. 

No. Restraint wants people to think he’s a lackey, but this is a man who knows how to take charge and enjoys it. He also looks like he thrives on people underestimating him. 

A mistake Clint won’t be making. 

“It’s your dime,” Clint says with a roguish grin. He’s practiced it enough to know how charming it is, “I’m yours for the length of this beer.”

“Thank you for meeting with me. I know these are unusual circumstances and I appreciate your flexibility.”

“Oh, I’m _ very _ flexible,” Clint flirts, not sure where he hopes this will go, but willing to roll with it. To see if Restraint is uncomfortable with another dom flirting with him, or if he maybe suspects that Clint is a sub. Clint isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or if Restraint’s eyes actually widen fractionally. 

Restraint pulls out a thin folder, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important discretion is in this matter. This doesn’t leave my sight.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, “Is this your way of telling me you like to watch?”

Restraint ignores the bait, “As mentioned, this is a time sensitive matter. Look it over. I need your answer now, I’m afraid.”

Clint frowns a little at the seriousness in Restraint’s tone and takes the folder. 

Halfway through he thumbs the bottle cap off the beer bottle, absently bouncing it off the candle in the middle of the table and then Restraint’s glass so that it lands squarely between them, and takes a long drink. 

He drains the beer before he finishes the file and when he looks up Restraint silently slides his nearly full glass of scotch over to him, which Clint downs in one swallow before returning his gaze to the litany of horrors. 

“If this gets out—”

“The fallout will be unprecedented.”

“How did he get so highly placed? How could something like this happen for so long?”

“That’s my job to worry about. I need to know if you can do this and if you can do it now. He’s only going to be in country for a few more hours. After that who knows when we’ll have another shot.”

“Won’t be easy.”

“If it was easy, I wouldn’t need you. You’ve never struck me as the easy type.”

Was that… was that flirting? Is Restraint flirting back?

“I’m not. Guess it’s not in my nature.”

“I need an answer, Hawkeye.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you. My resources are at your disposal.”

“To start with—” Clint’s interrupted by the sound of submachine gun fire from the hallway. The crowd erupts in panic. He leaps from the booth, gun drawn, looking for the shooter. Restraint is almost as fast out of the booth with his own weapon drawn. Clint smells something burning and realizes the delay was due to him setting the file on fire. 

Good. Let it burn. 

The shooter comes out of the hallway, spraying bullets into the ceiling. 

“_Everybody _ _ DOWN__._”

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. The wave hits and the undertow swallows him whole. God, this feels good. Why has he ever fought this feeling? It’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. 

He can’t see much from where he is on the floor, but he can tell everyone else is on the ground too. He watches as Sir walks over to the prone gunman and kicks her gun away. Sir cuffs the woman’s hands together, threading the cuffs through the bar’s foot railing. Clint tries not to get jealous, but it doesn’t really work. 

Clint’s Ukrainian is rough but he catches the word «police» as Sir issues an Order to the bartender, who pulls out a cell phone and starts dialing. 

Sir returns to their table and after stirring the ashes of the small fire that had been burning there, crouches down next to Clint, “Can you stand?”

“Hmmm, yes Sir,” Clint says agreeably. 

“Stand up, Hawkeye.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint tries, he honestly does but he feels like he’s moving through a marshmallow cloud, everything is sticky and sweet. And perfect. He feels like he could float here forever. 

“Okay, Hawkeye, I can see you’re trying and that’s good, but I really need you to stand up now. She was here for us. Well, me. And there will be more coming.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Is he standing? He isn’t sure. Everything is so… soft. He hopes he’s standing, because Sir wants him to be standing and he wants Sir to be happy. Happy like Clint. 

“Damn it. I’m truly sorry for this, Barton, but I need you to _ stand up and come with me._”

Clint feels a rush of purpose. No longer content to bask in his presence, Clint needs to please him to the exclusion of everything else. He needs to Obey_. _

He has to practically crawl up Sir’s body and when he’s back in his right mind one of the few things he will clearly remember from being Down will be the sturdy strength hidden by the three piece suit. He has to lean into Sir in order to keep uptight. He giggles. That’s silly. He means upright. Right? And what’s up with his balance, anyway? It’s off and Clint’s balance is never off. 

His gun is still in his hand mostly due to the kind of luck that follows the very young and the very foolish. It’s too heavy, so he sets it on the table. That out of the way, Clint wraps both arms around Sir and rest his head on his shoulder. 

“No, you can’t leave that— Damn it. Come on. This way.”

Sir’s hands are on him, touching him, pulling him by his clothes and it feels good. So good. Even better than it felt before, and before was good. Everything is so good. 

He tries to help Sir and starts to shrug his coat off. Good idea, Sir. He should be naked. Sir is here and he feels so good and he should be naked for Sir.

“No. No. Keep your clothes on. It’s going to be cold.”

Clint pouts. He doesn’t want to be cold he wants to be naked. 

Sir’s hands are rough but sure as he buttons Clint’s coat back up and winds his scarf around his neck. That was nice. He likes Sir’s hands on his throat and he hums in pleasure.

Everyone else is still on the floor and that makes Clint happy. Sir chose him. All these people and he’s the one Sir is taking with him. 

His legs are wobbly, he doesn’t want to be standing, he wants to kneel, to crawl, to show Sir how good he can be. Sir has to help him walk, which is nice because the way Sir holds him lets Clint tuck his head into the crook of Sir’s neck. He smells so good Clint can’t resist tasting him, licking behind his ear.

Sir yelps and practically pushes Clint out the door. 

The cold is a shock to his system and all at once Clint snaps out of it. His stomach lurches and he pushes away from Restraint in order to vomit into the gutter. 

“Fuck. What the fuck,” he says, trying to spit the taste of bile out of his mouth. 

Restraint reaches out a steadying hand but Clint pushes it away, “No! Fuck, no. Don’t touch me.”

This. This is why he refuses to go Down like that for anyone. He hasn’t been that far Down since he lost his virginity, maybe ever. It never matters how good he feels when he’s Deep, coming back to himself always sucks. 

“Shit. You’re Dropping.”

“I’m fine,” Clint grits out. Cat’s out of the bag now. When a dom gets Ordered by a stronger Voice they’ll Obey, but their own Marston factor gives them a measure of resistance and they stay clear headed. It will be obvious now that Clint’s a sub. 

All his senses are overloaded. The moon is too bright, the air too cold, his clothes too rough. He wants to stab his own heart out. Or brain. Or anything to make it stop. 

“No, you’re not. You’re Dropping. I have a safe house nearby. Come on.”

“No! No. You do not get to tell me what to do. Not right now. Not after… after that.”

“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry,” Restraint takes a step back and holds his hands up palm out, “Wherever we go we can’t stay here. That won’t be the last Malina thug we see.”

“Shit. Fine. Safe house,” Clint gestures indicating that he’ll follow his dom. The dom. Not his dom. Stupid fucking brain, “Now. Fuck!” He swears as he trips over his own Drop clumsy feet, “Damn it, fine! Here,” Clint growls, gripping Restraint’s shoulder, “Let’s fucking go. Lead the fucking way.”

It takes them longer than they’d like; they have to double back a couple times to ensure no one tails them. 

Once they get into in the small apartment his dom— God damn it, _ Restraint _ hands him a bottle of water and a chocolate power bar. He wants to refuse them on principle but that would hurt Clint a hell of a lot more than it would Restraint. He finishes first bottle in record time then grabs two more from the fridge before settling on the couch. 

“I really am sor—”

“Save it. I get it. Though I’m not sure how your sub can take it.”

“I don’t have a sub. It’s— I know it’s… a lot.”

“You did what you had to do.”

“Is there anything I can—”

“No. I’m fine. We don’t have time for you to coddle me, and I’m a big boy, I don’t need it. I might be a little cranky, but a little ‘target practice’ and I’ll be right as rain,” Clint normally works off a Drop at the archery range, but he supposes a little monster hunting will do in a pinch, “Look, our window is closing and this needs to happen now. So. If you’re still okay with working with me now that you know I’m a sub, we should talk logistics.”

“Being a sub or a dom has nothing to do with why I wanted you for this job. I wanted Hawkeye, and I still want Hawkeye.”

That makes Clint feel things he’d rather not think about, so instead he focuses on the job. 

Clint expects things to be awkward between them but outside of a little silent hovering while Clint finishes the water and a couple power bars, Restraint lives up to his code name, letting Clint take the lead and offering a incredible amount of insight. 

The only other person he’s ever worked this well with is Barney. It‘s...

It’s nice. 

After the rough start the job itself ends up going extraordinarily smoothly. 

They regroup at a different safehouse. Clint regretfully turns over the experimental sniper rifle while Restraint finalizes the money transfer. 

“You could probably have done that yourself.” 

Restraint had been a work of art in the field. Feeding Clint the right information just when he needed it he had been Clint’s shadow, always there, never in the way.

“Too risky. I needed the best.”

“Hmph,” Clint mutters dismissively. Both the primary and backup nests he had suggested were exactly what Clint would have chosen on his own. He recognizes a fellow sniper when he sees one, though he’s not sure what outfit Restraint trained with. He’s definitely ex-special forces of some type. 

And the rifle, sweet Jesus, being able to shoot the rifle was almost worth having been Dropped in and of itself. It’s the closest squeezing a trigger has come to making him feel the way he does with a bow. It was almost as if the rifle knew what he was thinking, like it was an extension of his arm. 

He doesn’t know who these R & D geniuses Restraint referred to are, but Clint would give his eye teeth to get to work with gear like this on the regular. 

“I’m serious. I wanted the best; which means I wanted you.”

Clint ignores the pool of warmth that gathers in his stomach. After the scene at the bar, he isn’t sure he can trust himself to behave rationally. 

On the other hand, rationality is overrated and the quickest way to find out if there is really something between them is to dive right in. 

Besides, at this point the Drop would actually be worth it. 

“We should fuck.”

“I— What?!” 

It’s the first time the man has been anything other than completely composed. Clint is pretty sure he blushes for a microsecond. Restraint is adorably flustered and seems unable to figure out what to do with his hands. 

“Let me be clearer, you should tie me to the bed, spank me til I cry, and then fuck my brains out. Come on, Talk dirty to me.”

“Mr.— I. Hawkeye. I don’t think—”

“So don’t think. Going once. Going twice,” Clint licks his lip and then bites it, watching Restraint through his lashes. He wonders if Restraint’s Voice really as good as he remembers it being, how it will feel now that Clint knows what to expect. The thought of it thrills and terrifies him in equal measure. 

“While I appreciate the offer, I think it’s best if we maintain a professional distance.”

Well. Fuck. 

Clint tries to cover for his embarrassment at the rejection with babble, “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Fine. Sounds peachy.”

“It’s not that I don’t—”

“I said it’s fine. I’ll catch you on the flip side.”

Clint takes off before he can make more of an ass out of himself. 


	8. Chapter 8

Clint is pretty sure he’s blown it. Two months and nothing. No posts. No messages. Just.

Nothing.

Is it because he’s a sub, or because he came on too strong?

Which is worse, Restraint cutting ties because he’s a sub, or because he’s a slut?

He doesn’t think it’s the sub thing. 

Restraint’s jobs before Odessa had been pretty equal opportunity; it’s not like doms have the market cornered on being scumbags. And Restraint had not only seemed sincere when he said it didn’t matter but had followed through, comfortable letting Clint take the lead, not patronizing him, treating him just like he would any dom. 

Then, when Clint had just about given up hope, contact. 

**Dorrek Veranke. Eliminate. 5772156649. **

**Consider it done. We should get drinks sometime. **

On the downside, Restraint doesn’t respond to the invite at all. On the upside he appears to be open for business. 

Maybe if Clint tries to take it slow and not offer to jump the dom’s bones the first chance he gets, he can convince Restraint Clint is worth his time. 

**Victor McCann. File: Bad Titan. Extraction. Drop Off Whiskey. 7062332801. **

**Got it. So, not drinks. Coffee? Everyone loves coffee. **

The McCann job is messy. Clint avoids collateral damage, barely, and manages to get out with only a small graze. 

**Hey, so I got shot for you. I think that should at least get me dinner.**

He doesn’t expect a response so he isn’t disappointed when there isn’t one. 

Okay. Maybe he’s a little disappointed. 

**Maysa Mair. Eliminate. 8384748387**

**I’m thinking Italian. I know a great place in London. Come on. You know you want to. **

Genocidal maniacs 0; Hawkeye 7. 

The next one comes in while he’s wrapping up the Mair job. 

**Roxxon, Experiment 110,617. Eliminate. 3394634327. **

**Do you have *any* idea how good I look on my knees?**

Whoops. That one kind of got away from him. On the upside, that’s one virus that definitely isn’t getting out into the world. And Restraint had provided enough explosives to level the place, so he had to have been expecting something like that. 

**Hope you didn’t need that building. On the upside it makes a great crater. Maybe someone can turn it into a lake?**

After that the jobs come at the same rate they did before Odessa. There’s still nothing to tie them together other than the depths of human depravity.

Clint thinks maybe he just needs to convince Restraint that Clint really wants him, that it wasn’t just the circumstances of the Odessa job. 

Though, thinking of the Odessa job, Clint shivers. He can’t forget how it felt to go Down for Restraint, the way his Voice had wrapped around Clint and taken him somewhere he had never been to before. 

Clint hasn’t masturbated this much since he was a teenager. 

**Premila Mohan. Upload. Pick Up Echo. 8418694844**

**Hey, so did you see that new Victoria’s Secret ad? Do you think I could pull that off? I’m pretty sure I could pull that off. **

Clint’s inner voice tells him it’s time to give up. To just take the work and let it go. 

**Asa Iemitsu. Eliminate. 4545104035**

**You me. Satin sheets and silk ropes. Think about it. **

The other part of him thinks about those leather gloves and Restraint’s hands on his throat and how it felt to call him “Sir” and he _wants_. He wants like nothing he has ever felt before. 

**Bella Brooks. Eliminate. 6373636333**

**Hey, so what’s the name of your cologne? Out of everything that happened that night, the one thing I can’t get out of my head is how good you smell. **

Hell, he doesn’t even know the guy’s name. And he’s tried to find out. Clint isn’t without his resources and after over a year since their first contact he’s no closer to figuring out who the guy is or where his information comes from than he was when he took that first job. 

It’s not pathetic that he wants to put a couple drops of Restraint’s cologne on his pillow, to give him something to dream about, is it?

And even if it is, he doesn’t care. 

**F2F. Angelo’s. **

Clint feels a flood of terror and arousal. Or maybe he’s aroused _ because _ he’s terrified. 

**Finally.**

~~~

It isn’t a date. No reason to dress up. If he’s wearing his nicest shirt and his tightest pants, the ones that show off his... assets to the greatest effect, it’s just because that’s what was clean. 

And there’s nothing to read into the fact that Restraint picked the exact restaurant Clint was going to recommend three months ago. It has to be a coincidence. Right?

And there’s no reason to be nervous, because it isn’t a date. 

It’s probably just another high stakes job. Clint’s letting himself get all worked up for nothing. 

Clint has a sharp moment of panic when he arrives. He hadn’t realized Angelo’s was one of those old school places where the tables are set up with kneeling cushions for the subs and the menu has a variety of items that lend themselves to hand feeding. 

What if they peg him as a sub? Will he have to kneel? Does Restraint expect Clint to go to his knees in public? 

_ ‘Clint Barton, you dummy,’ _Clint scolds himself. What was he thinking? He hates public scenes of any kind and has always thought handfeeding was demeaning. 

This is a mistake. 

Since Clint hasn’t completely lost his mind he doesn’t bolt as soon as he catches sight of Restraint. 

It helps that the man looks absolutely delicious in a well cut dark blue suit with a black shirt and coordinating blue tie that draws out the sapphire in his hazel eyes. He smiles as Clint brushes off the hostess with an, “I’m meeting someone,” and makes his way over to the table. 

Restraint signals to hostess to stop following Clint and nods to the other chair. Once again he shows incredible situational awareness. They can’t both cover all the access points, but the way they're seated they can at least cover each other’s backs. 

“Hawkeye.”

“Restraint.”

“Actually, it’s Phil. Phil Coulson.”

Clint is startled, things are moving faster than he had anticipated. He’s not quite ready to go that far, himself. 

“Nice to meet you, Coulson,” he says, pointedly glancing from his eyes to his lips and back again. 

“Would you like to eat first, or get straight to business?”

Damn. It really isn’t a date. Which is fine. He had known it was probably about a job; it had been stupid of him to get his hopes up. 

If he doesn’t like the job then dinner would be awkward and Clint would probably have to leave. Clint wants as much time with Coulson as possible. Who knows when or even if they’ll ever have another face to face. 

“What kind of sub do you take me for? Buy me dinner first.”

Coulson nods and picks up his menu.

Dinner is fantastic. Unfortunately. Coulson is an animated dining partner. He tells hilarious, if highly redacted, stories of jobs that have gone wrong just about every way possible and manages to get an embarrassing story or two out of Clint in return. 

Things turn serious over tiramisu; it's large enough that they’re sharing, and the way Coulson licks his fork is sinful, made even worse by the fact that he doesn’t appear to realize he’s doing it. 

Clint, however, is a showman to his core and is almost over the top with his hums of pleasure, dabbing the last of the mascarpone from the plate, sucking it off his thumb while he maintains eye contact.

Coulson is captivated, but only for a moment before he clears his throat and says, “Well. We should get down to business.”

Clint gives a disappointed huff, “You can’t blame me for sucking every ounce of pleasure out of you for as long as I have you.”

Coulson chokes on his wine, his eyes watering and it takes him several beats to catch his breath. Clint thinks he could spend the rest of his life ruffling Phil Coulson’s feathers and die a happy man. 

Composed once more, Coulson pulls out a folder from the messenger bag that he had been keeping between his feet. 

Clint smirks as he opens it and then feels his face freeze. 

“What the fuck.” 

“Let me explain.”

“Explain? Explain why you have a folder on me? What the fuck is this, Coulson?”

“It’s a job offer, Mr. Barton.”

“What?” Clint was completely confused. Why would Coulson give him a file with his face instead of the target’s?

“What I am about to say is completely confidential. If you choose to walk away, and you do have that choice, you can’t tell anyone about this meeting or what you hear tonight.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Clint sits forward in his chair, giving himself space to draw the gun at his back if he needs to. 

“I’m with SHIELD. No, I’m not kidding. Yes we’re real. And we want you to come work for us full time,” Coulson says, as if what he’s saying isn’t insane, “I want you to come work for us.”

“What the fuck?”

“Your talents are being wasted. You could be so much more than a hired gun.”

“And you want me to come work for the boogeymen? Doing what? If I’m not just a hired gun then what?”

“Mostly the same work you’re doing now, assassinations, missions into hostile territory to capture enemy personnel or materials. The occasional rescue. Maybe a small coup here or there. But now you’d have a team. Backup. Access to our resources. And we are very, very, resourceful.”

“Jesus. What’s in it for you?”

“We’d be able to use you on more sensitive missions, ones that rely on the highest level of discretion; as well as more long term projects. And as I told you before, I want the best. I want you.”

Clint flips through the file. Everything is there. 

Everything. 

It has notes on his childhood. His abusive father and his parents’ deaths. The subsequent foster homes and time at St. Ignatius. It references jobs he’d done with Carson’s. An interview with Monica. All his work. All of it, including jobs done as Bruno, Goliath, and Ronin. 

It’s the most terrifying thing Clint has ever seen in his entire life.

“This isn’t an intimidation tactic, Mr. Barton. We need you to know how serious we are. The kind of intel we have access to.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?” 

“I’m the only one that knows what’s in that file. That’s the only copy, and it’s yours to dispose of whether you take the offer or not.”

Clint swallows down his panic, “And if I don’t take the offer. What happens then?”

“Nothing changes. We maintain contact for freelance jobs. But if you breathe a word about us, or this offer,” Coulson shrugs apologetically.

“And if I want you and not them?”

“What I do in my private life is at my discretion,” Coulson says and gives Clint a heated look, “And I already know how discrete you can be.”

Clint as to tamp down on the thrill that sends through him. He sorts through the file, not really seeing it, and tries to think. He likes his life, his freedom, but what Coulson is offering has its appeal. And there’s more than a chance that Coulson lying, that if Clint turns him down this will turn into a shoot out. Into a fight for his life. 

If that’s the case, he’s gotten out of worse situations. 

It would be a shame to have to shoot Coulson, though.

After all, it could hurt his chances for a third date. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m in.”

“Then I have some documents for you to sign. Do you have any personal projects that you need to finish? While you’ve obviously worked for us before as a Consultant, there is an induction process. You’ll be able to test out of the majority of the classes and I don’t have any doubts about your ability to handle the few that you will have to take.”

“Classes?” Clint smirks, “I’m really not the classy type,” he says with double meaning. 

“I think you sell yourself short, Mr. Barton,” Coulson says, replying to both of them. 

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can prove it to you,” Coulson says, giving Clint a lingering once over that has his heart pounding and his blood running south. 

Clint smiles and he stares at Coulson’s mouth, “I look forward to you teaching me a lesson or two.”

“First, sign here, here, initial here, and sign here,” Coulson says, returning to all business and for a split second Clint wonders if he had imagined the flirting. 

It takes a while for Clint to finish reading everything. The contract seems like it’s been run through a wood chipper made of lawyers and then put back together by a coked up squirrel. There’s six NDA’s that threaten charges of treason in no less than four countries and they’re probably the least stressful thing here. 

“For an organisation that doesn’t exist, you sure have a lot of paperwork.”

“SHIELD was started as a joint American, British, Soviet, and Chinese agency. It’s self-sufficient now, but as you can imagine, it has an extensive bureaucratic legacy.”

“So, before I finish signing, there’s one thing I have to know about SHIELD.”

“And that is?”

“What’s your policy on fraternization?” Clint asks, because honestly, if he has to choose between working with Coulson and fucking him there’s no question of which one Clint wants more. 100% medical coverage or not. 

“Relationships need to be disclosed to HR, and depending on the circumstances they may check in periodically to ensure there’s no professional misconduct,” Coulson’s predatory smile sends a shiver up Clint’s spine, “Or did you mean my personal policy?”

“Both,” Clint says, biting his lip and then licking away the sting. 

“As long as nothing interferes with the work, I don’t have a problem with it. As I said, what I do in my private life is at my discretion.”

“Well then,” Barton says, signing the last page, “What’s say we go back to my place for a bit of discrete fraternizing?”

“I’d like that, Mr. Barton. I’d like that very much, but,” he pauses and Clint wonders if he’s made a mistake in signing, if he’s screwed himself out of getting screwed, when Coulson continues in a rich and dark tone that makes his toes curl, “I think that’s something you have to earn, don’t you?”

“Oh, fuck me,” he says and he feels a rush as subspace comes up to meet him so quickly it takes him by surprise, “Yeah— I mean, yes, Sir. I’d like that.”

“Tie up any loose ends you have and I’ll meet you in DC.”

Clint’s definitely got something he'd like tied up, “Sir, yes, Sir.”

Clint. The something is Clint.


	9. Chapter 9

Whenever anyone else is around Clint keeps his taunts PG, maybe PG-13, sticking to snarky comments and exaggerated flirtation; walking the line between insubordination and HR nightmare. 

But when it’s just the two of them he does everything he can to provoke a reaction. 

You would think that Clint had nerve damage from all the things he’s dropped and had to pick up in front of Coulson. It starts as a half joke/half come on, waiting until they’re alone and then, “Oops! How clumsy of me,” but Clint becomes bolder the more it becomes obvious that Coulson is trying and failing to ignore him. 

At first just bending over to show off his ass is enough to keep Coulson’s eyes, sharp and predatory, locked on him. 

After the third time, Coulson raises the stakes. He nearly sends Clint Under as he ‘helps’ him, pressing up behind Clint and bending over his back to pick up the pen, placing a hand on Clint’s chest and half lifting him as they stand up together, and then, with his lips brushing Clint’s ear, and handing him the pen and whispering dryly, “You dropped this,” only to walk away without a second glance.

After that Clint tries dropping down and then thrusting his ass back up, slowly rolling the rest of his body upright; when that fails to get a reaction, he tries lowering himself to his knees, pressing his hands to the small of his back as he arches out his chest and stretches his spine before grabbing the— What was it this time? The stapler or whatever. 

Seeing him on his knees spurs Coulson to action again; Coulson helps him up with lingering hands, caressing his ass one time, brushing his nipple another. On one memorable occasion gripping the back of his neck and using that to guide Clint up. That one gets a starring role in Clint’s nightly fantasies. 

But when Clint tries to push things further Coulson just steps away, putting back on his Corporate Drone persona like a mask. 

Oh, sure, he’ll tease Clint within an inch of his sanity but he always pulls them back from the brink. 

Clint tries going to his hands and knees, swaying his hips as he crawls the few steps around Coulson’s desk to grab the folder he had ‘accidentally’ dropped at Coulson’s feet; shoulders down, ass up, in a languid stretch and then placing the folder on Coulson’s desk before flowing his feet, brushing up against Coulson’s knees and caging him in his chair by holding on to the armrests.

“Is there anything else, anything at all, I can do for you, Sir?” He licks his lips and flicks a glance down at Coulson’s lap, admiring the outline of his dick where the thick length of it presses against the confines of Coulson’s slacks. 

Coulson’s eyes bore into Clint’s as he grips Clint’s hip and turns him around, breaking his hold on the chair. Coulson places his hands firmly on Clint’s ass and squeezes, his thumbs caressing Clint’s cleft, lifting and separating his cheeks as he rubs Clint’s ass. He lets go just as Clint starts to dance along the edge of subspace. 

Coulson pushes him towards the door, “That will be all, Barton.”

He never would have pegged Phil Coulson as the world’s biggest tease, but here they are. 

Coulson makes it a habit to check in on the recruits when they’re sparring, his eyes lingering over Clint with a banked heat Clint feels to his core; but Coulson always disappears by the time they’re released to the showers. 

Clint wears his tightest tank top (Don’t tell him Coulson’s not obsessed with his arms, they’re amazing and Clint knows it.) and comes up to Coulson’s office after a bracingly cold shower, his shirt just damp enough to outline every hard earned muscle, his nipples pebbled from cold and arousal, and his hair a mess of dripping curls; but Coulson doesn’t even look up from his computer screen, making all that effort wasted. 

He tries bringing Coulson coffee from the good machine down on the fourth floor. Coulson usually takes it black but when he’s feeling indulgent he adds a splash of hazelnut creamer, which is the way Clint prepares it. 

That gets him an appreciative smile and at the first sip a soft hum of pleasure that goes straight to Clint’s dick. Coulson licks his lips and praises both Clint and the coffee, “Good. Thank you, Clint,” and it makes Clint weak in the knees.

After that it becomes a morning ritual, though Clint usually just brings up two cups of black coffee, one for each of them; saving the hazelnut creamer for when he knows Coulson really needs a pick me up. 

He waits for that first sip and Coulson’s, “Good. Thank you, Clint,” and then sits on Coulson’s couch and reviews the day’s coursework while Coulson taps away at his computer. Clint’s tested out of the majority of SHIELD’s training, but it’s not surprising that the world's largest and most covert organization has a robust and detailed induction program. 

Clint’s already in Coulson’s office when Coulson comes back early one morning from what must have been a rough mission; he smells overwhelmingly of smoke, his hair is in mild disarray, and there’s what looks to be a couple spots of blood on his wrinkled white dress shirt. He throws his suit jacket carelessly over the guest chair and slumps down behind his desk. For Coulson it’s a full on breakdown. 

Clint puts his hand over Coulson’s cup of coffee, “Nope. Go home and get some rest, Coulson.”

“Can’t. I need to—”

“What you _ need _ is to take care of yourself. Can whatever it is wait an hour? At least take a nap; I promise you’ll feel better.”

Coulson’s lip twitches, his equivalent of a frown, “It’s a nice thought but—”

“Please, Phil?” 

He can see Coulson’s resolve crumbling. He really must be exhausted.

“An hour. I’ll wake you up before I head to class. We’re practicing bomb defusal and you know I don’t want to miss that.”

“One hour, then I’ve got to get started on the After Action.”

“Good boy,” Clint teases and leads Coulson over to the couch. 

He takes the hand knitted throw from the back and tucks Coulson in, only for Coulson to drag Clint down into the cradle of his arms; he chuffs into Clint’s ear, “You’re a good boy.”

_ Fuck. _

Yeah, he didn’t really need to study those schematics anyway. 

Clint wallows in the guilty pleasure of Coulson wrapped around him, his breath warm in the back of Clint’s neck, Clint hugging Coulson’s arms around his chest. 

He thinks he could go Down, just a little, but he knows the only reason Coulson let down his guard is because Clint’s looking out for him. He contents himself with an occasional sigh and daydreams about what it might be like to get this whenever he wants and not just when Coulson’s defenses are down. 

When it’s been an hour he turns in Coulson’s arms and says quietly, “Coulson.”

“Hmmm.”

“Sorry, sir, it's time to get up.”

“Hmmmnope,” Coulson says, and nuzzles Clint’s cheek, his lips just missing Clint’s.

“Ugh. You are not making this easy,” and it takes all of Clint’s willpower not to give in, “Phil. You need to wake up.”

Coulson blinks his eyes open, “I thought you were a dream.”

“Nope. Flesh and blood.”

Coulson grabs Clint’s ass and pulls him close enough that he can feel Coulson’s hardening dick against his own, which causes Clint’s blood to surge south.

“So you are.”

“Oh, fuck,” and then hating himself, “I’m gonna be late, sir.”

“So be late,” Coulson says, staring at Clint’s mouth with sleepy desire, the very definition of bedroom eyes.

Clint’s only human.

“Phil,” he whispers, leaning into Phil’s body, _ ‘Oh, God, it’s finally happening,’_ but just before their lips meet Coulson pulls back as he comes fully awake.

“You’re right,” Coulson says and brushes his thumb across Clint’s lower lip, stopping the kiss, “You’re going to be late and I have work to do.”

“You’re killing me,” Clint says with a frustrated groan and snaps his teeth at Coulson’s thumb as it retreats.

Coulson sits up them up, pulling Clint into his lap with his back against Phil’s chest and then grabs Clint’s hips, taking a moment to rub his dick against Clint’s ass.

“Oh, fuck me,” Clint says, part swear, part plea.

“You’ve got a bomb to defuse.”

“I’ve got something for you to defuse,” Clint says, grinding his ass against Phil’s dick.

“I’ve got reports to write,” Phil says, pushing Clint to his feet.

Clint huffs, “You suck.”

“Maybe if you’re good,” Phil says, standing up and smacking Clint on the ass, “Now, get to class.”

“You’re the worst, Sir,” Clint says, putting the extra inflection on the honorific.

“Go. If you get the best time I’ll take you offsite for lunch.”

“Pizza?” The cafeteria’s pizza is notoriously bad.

“I’ll even let you get pineapple on your half.”

Clint beats the next best time by a full thirty seconds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwhahahah. Not yet.


	10. Chapter 10

“This is bullshit!” Clint storms into Coulson’s office. 

“I’m working.”

Clint slaps a piece of paper down on Coulson’s desk, but the asshole doesn’t even bother to look up.

“Barton.”

“I’m not doing this.”

Coulson sighs but keeps typing, “It’s part of the curriculum.”

“It’s a class on how to fill out paperwork.”

“Everyone takes it.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Do it anyway.”

“I don’t need a class to tell me how to fill out a form!”

“I took it.”

“It’s at eight in the damn morning.”

“Then you’d better get a good night’s sleep.”

“This is insane!”

Coulson finally stops typing and looks up at Clint, “What’s the real problem.”

“I told you, it’s stupid. It’s a waste of my time and my talents,” Clint sprawls in the office chair on the other side of the desk, a leg propped up over one of the chair’s arms as he leans back against the other. 

“Barton?” Coulson prompts, continuing to give Clint his undivided attention. 

Clint makes a face up at the ceiling and jiggles his foot. 

“Barton. Talk to me.” 

Any other dom would have made it an Order. Any other dom would have kicked Clint off the chair and on to his knees for such blatant disrespect. Any other dom wouldn’t have allowed Clint to burst into his office like this in the first place. Hell, any other dom would have put him Down weeks ago; it’s not like he hasn’t made it abundantly clear that he wants it. 

But if Clint has learned anything in these last few weeks it’s that Phil Coulson isn’t like other doms. 

He has a reputation around the Trisk for being unflappable. Maybe a robot. Or an alien. 

Everyone knows he’s a dom. It’s in every line of his body. The way he speaks. The way he takes command of every room he enters. 

But Coulson never uses his Voice, not when the new recruits screw up, not when one of the missions he disappears on goes south, not even with Clint constantly needling and pushing at him. 

The rumor has it that he’s never used it. 

Some say it’s because his Voice is so weak that he practically doesn’t have one. That the way he acts is overcompensation for being Mute. 

Clint knows first hand how wrong those rumors are. 

Sometimes he isn’t sure if he pushes Coulson’s buttons so hard because he wants to prove to the rest of them how powerful Coulson is; or to prove to himself that when it comes down to it he’s just like any other dom, ready to put a sub Down just because he can; or if some part of Clint just wants to feel that way again, the way he had in Odessa, and damn the consequences. 

“Clint.”

“You know I didn’t make it past second grade? Of course you do,” Clint snorts, “You know everything.”

“Which is why I also know you’ve taken enough online courses to get degrees from three different universities, if you wanted them.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I could take classes at my own pace. No one watching me. Here I’m always on display. Everyone’s just waiting for me to fuck up.”

“That’s not true.”

“What is it then?”

“They’re in awe of you.”

“Pfft. None of them know who I am. Who I was. I’m just a guy. Not even that, a sub.”

Coulson’s voice is riddled with steel as he asks, “Who said that?”

“No one. But it’s true.” 

SHIELD actually takes its zero tolerance policy seriously. Maybe that’s why there are so many subs working for the covert organization. 

And no one treats the subs any different than the doms. 

It’s surreal. 

Clint feels Coulson’s disappointed look more than he sees it.

Clint sighs, “Anyway, what makes you think they’re in ‘awe’ of me.”

“Because I recruited you.”

“And? I know you know what they say about you. You’re the biggest badass here and they all think you’re a glorified pencil pusher. I don’t know why you put up with it when you could put any one of them on their knees.”

Coulson gives that pained sigh that’s reserved especially for Clint.

“Barton, do you know how many people I’ve personally recommended to Fury?”

“Thousands?”

“One. Every agent we have from the greenest Level 0 up to and including Director Fury knows that I have impossible standards.”

“And what, they were such a paragon of domliness that everyone thinks you’ve struck gold twice?”

Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose, “I really wish you would talk to one of the counselors about your dynamic hang ups.”

“I don’t have hang ups,” he says, staring up at the vent ceiling, wondering if he could use it to escape this conversation, “l have reasonable reactions based on years of evidence.”

“You’re right. I’m sure that that’s it,” Coulson says, “Regardless, I didn’t say one other agent. I said one.”

“One?” What does he mean, o— Oh, he means Clint, “Oh.”

“‘Oh’.”

“Fine. Whatever. It just means they’re gonna laugh at the both of us when they figure out you made a mistake. And when I suck at this you're the one I’m gonna stick with all my paperwork.”

“Then I’ll just have to incentivize you to do well.”

Clint sits up comically fast. Does Coulson mean what Clint hopes he means? Sure, they flirt outrageously with one another, more than flirt, but Coulson hasn’t been willing to take that last step. Clint’s running out of ways to tempt Coulson, but it looks like he’s finally broken through Coulson’s last layer of self control.

Clint stands up and leans across Coulson’s desk provocatively. He takes Coulson’s tie, threading it slowly through his fingers. 

“Well, I have found that I’m very reward motivated,” he whispers, watching Coulson’s mouth as he tugs on his tie. 

“I’ve noticed,” Coulson pulls his tie back into place and Clint holds on to his end, letting Coulson gently draw him in. Clint tilts his head slightly and sways closer; Coulson leans up until they’re a hairbreadths apart. Clint licks his lips and his tongue brushes across Coulson’s lower lip, daring Coulson to finally end the dance they started the night they first met. 

Coulson waits long enough that Clint lets out a soft whimper, his body strung out like a violin, begging to be played. Coulson breaks with a growl, his hands coming up to roughly cradle Clint’s face as he devours his mouth. 

Clint feels the wave of subspace start to suck him Down and for the first time in his life he doesn’t feel the need to control it. He wants it. Needs it, despite what it might cost. It’s worth it at any price. Instead of fighting it he lets go and Falls into it. 

Phil moves a hand back to cup the base of Clint’s neck and pulls him closer. Clint follows it without question, climbing across the desk until he’s kneeling on the surface, his body curving down, never breaking the kiss. 

Phil stands, drawing Clint up, the hand on his face moving down his back to his ass and hauling Clint to the edge of the desk until his knees bracket Phil’s hips. 

Clint moans deep in his throat and he goes a little Deeper. He thrusts up against Phil and feels the hot, hard pressure of his dick pressed against Clint’s own. Clint breaks from the kiss with a gasp, “Bite me.”

Phil grabs Clint by his hair and drags his head back, exposing his throat, Clint groans and then Phil’s teeth are on him. No preamble, no hurried lick or gentle kiss, just a brutal plundering sharp and bright with pain. 

“Oh!” Clint pants as he slips all the way Down, as soft and sweet as cotton candy. He melts into his dom, his body compliant and pliable, “Thank you, Sir.”

Phil pulls him impossibly closer as they rub against each other, the hand on Clint’s ass moves to cup the back of his thigh where it meets his ass and then up between his legs until Phil’s thumb is able to press into Clint’s crack, and Clint is torn between his dick and his ass. He wants to keep rubbing up against Phil’s dick while also pressing back and trying to line up Phil’s thumb against his asshole. 

Unable to decide he thrusts back and forth between them until Phil twists the hand securing Clint’s hair and growls into his ear, “Hold still and let me give you what you need.”

“Oh, God,” Clint is swimming. Everything is warm and perfect. Holding still is a different kind of pain that shoots straight to his balls.

“Good boy.”

“Fuuuuck!” 

Clint trembles and moans, swearing again as Phil finds his asshole through his clothes and rubs circles around it while continuing to twist Clint’s hair and slide his dick against Clint’s. He takes Clint’s mouth again, pulling Clint’s bottom lip through his teeth and Clint loses his damn mind, “God, I can’t, Sir! I can’t take it. I can’t.”

“You’ll take what I give you.”

“Oh. Oh, God. Yes. Yes, Sir.”

“Say it.”

“Fuck. Fuck! I’ll take what you give me. I’ll be good. I can be good.”

“_You are good.”_

Clint had thought he was as far Down as he could go, but he was wrong; gloriously, deliciously wrong. At the sound of Sir’s Voice he loses his last tether to reality and Sinks into the deepest reaches of subspace. 

He becomes a being of pure sensation. Every nerve ending sings in pleasure/pain/pleasure and he wants it to never end. 

He isn’t sure how long it lasts; it feels like forever and also like it’s over way too soon. The first thing he notices as his head clears is that he's sitting on Phil's lap, his head on Phil’s shoulder. Phil has one hand gently rubbing circles on his back, the other stroking his hair. 

“Shhhh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Clint hadn’t even noticed he was crying. 

“Phil?” Clint whispers. 

“There you are, sweetheart. Welcome back.”

“What happened?”

“You went all the way Down. Fast and Deep. I think it may have been a little too much all at once. How do you feel?”

“I feel… I feel really good, actually.”

And he does. It’s like he’s had the best orgasm followed by the best nap of his life. He feels... unburdened. Coming out of subspace has never felt like this. _ Subspace _ has never felt like this. 

“Good. I’m glad. I still want you to come to the cafeteria with me and get a snack.”

“Snack sounds good.”

“You’ll need to stand.”

Clint frowns and hides his eyes in the crook of Phil’s neck, inhaling the coffee/woodsmoke/Phil scent of his skin, “Nope. Standing sucks. I wanna stay here.” 

“No standing, no snacks.”

“That’s a dumb rule.”

“I’ll take it up with management. Now up,” Phil smacks his ass twice. And none too gently either. 

“That’s not really the best way to encourage me to get off your lap.”

“What if I promised you a spanking to remember?”

“Now?”

“No. Tonight. After I take you to dinner.”

“I’m starting to like your idea of incentives, Agent Coulson. Maybe the class won’t be so bad after all.”

“Oh, this wasn't an incentive for the class. Do well and I’ll see about you getting private access to the range whenever you want.”

“Oh my God, collar me.”

“You’re adorable,” Phil laughs and kisses the tip of his nose, “And so easy to please.”

“Oh, so now that I’ve put out I’m easy?”

“I stand corrected. Far be it for me, or anyone, to call Clint Barton ‘easy’.”

They cuddle a little longer and for once Clint lets himself enjoy it. There may be something to this whole aftercare jazz.

“You know, that was a hell of a first kiss, Coulson.”

He can feel Coulson smile into the top of his head, “It was pretty mind-blowing for me, too.”

“Should have fucked me the first time I asked, shouldn’t‘ve’ya?”

Coulson hugs him and asks with a touch of regret, “Do you think we could have had then what we have now?”

Clint takes the question as seriously as it’s meant and really thinks about it, about who he was six months ago and what he thought about Coulson, of how they’ve gotten to know each other over daily lunches and impromptu discussions, of the long slow build to this moment and what it might mean for their future. 

“No, probably not,” he says, feeling a little sad for the ‘almost Clint and Coulson’ of the past and for what they had nearly lost. 

“Then for the first time in my life I don’t regret not taking you up on that offer.”

Clint leans up to brush his lips against Coulson’s and says, “For the first time, neither do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where you want to stop if you’re looking for a happily ever after. 
> 
> It’s a long, dark, **dark** road ahead.
> 
> If all you want are happy endings (or “happy endings” (Oh, God, I’m terrible, ignore me)) then in addition to stopping here, stop Cashing in My Bad Luck after the kiss and don’t read the last two lines of Different from the Rest. 
> 
> Once Never Tear Us Apart is up that’s all safe. All smut, but also safe.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the beginning of the end.

Clint is in the field in record time. He takes assignments with a couple different handlers and discovers that working in a team is less grating than he thought it would be. Most of them are even cool with his idiosyncratic use of the bow R & D custom made for him at Coulson’s request. He still prefers the Top Secret operations run by Coulson, but that’s more for the fringe benefits. 

And it isn’t like they don’t spend plenty of time together. After the first month of Clint’s room at the Trisk remaining vacant while he spends all of his time at Coulson’s apartment, they officially move in together. They manage to keep it professional at work, if just barely, but when they get home they are all over each other. 

It’s more than great sex, though. They learn about each other too. 

Clint finds out that Coulson has a lot of baggage when it comes to his Voice. It’s always been Deep and caused him no end of problems until he learned to control it. 

He wants Clint’s submission free of any compulsion; he doesn’t want to Take it from Clint, but rather for Clint to give it to him as the gift Phil says it is. 

They're well matched there as well. Clint doesn’t respond well to punishment or humiliation, and Coulson prefers a system of positive reinforcement, rewarding and encouraging good (and just as often, bad) behavior. 

Neither of them are into hardcore pain, both dislike broken skin or anything that might interfere with the job. Coulson’s Drive to Protect tends to override his inner sadist and too much pain too soon yanks Clint out of subspace dangerously fast. 

Coulson’s favorite thing is to tie Clint to the bed and then overwhelm him with pleasure until he doesn’t think he can take anymore, and then to push just that little bit further to show Clint he can. 

It isn’t all sunshine and spankings. Both are prone to jealousy and, while Coulson does what he can to reassure Clint, Clint likes to play with fire. Coulson can be overprotective and Clint needs his freedom. Clint has trouble communicating and feels like Coulson talks too much. 

Coulson finds out the hard way that begging is a soft limit for Clint; if not handled with care it can cause Clint to Drop, which makes him moody and withdrawn, often fighting or outright refusing aftercare. 

Aftercare is probably the source of most of their arguments. Clint has never seen the need, Coulson disagrees. Vehemently. He doesn’t gloat even a little bit when Clint finally gives in and it turns out Clint loves being coddled.

Clint is pretty sure he’s in love. 

He has to tell Phil. 

Or maybe not. 

Clint has never told another person he loves him in his life. 

Sure he and Barney had their own shorthand, but they’ve ever said the words. And if either of his parents had used the word love, it was before Clint could remember. 

Maybe it’s too soon. 

Or maybe it would freak Coulson out. 

It freaks Clint out. 

Will Coulson say it back, or does he not feel the same way? Clint is pretty sure he does, but what if he’s wrong? 

No. No, he’s not wrong. He’s seen how Coulson’s parents are with each other, how easily they say it to each other, to Coulson. Coulson grew up in a home filled with love and it shows. 

‘_That’s it,’ _ Clint resolves, ‘_I’m telling him as soon as we get home.’_

He refuses to let himself get distracted as Coulson talks him through a maze of access ducts and he mentally reviews the op’s highlight reel in between turns. 

Ian Quinn has gotten his hands on an up and coming tech, something that is supposed to revolutionize the field of interrogation, some experimental form of brainwashing. It sounds like something out of a science fiction novel.

The op is a straight infil, smash, and grab: Get in. Get the plans. Get out. 

It looks like their intel is good as Clint finds the files almost right away. Clint hums a tune to intentionally irritate Coulson in the hopes of earning a spanking later. 

He’s just finished copying the last of the data to a USB drive when he feels that sick twist he always gets right before things go sideways. 

“Coulson. Something’s wrong.”

As he says it, he catches sight of a fine mist coming out of the overhead vent. 

“Talk to me, Barton.”

“Shit. The room is being gassed. No idea how long. I’m… I’m,” he drops to his knees and feels himself slide towards unconsciousness.

No. No, this can’t be happening. 

He doesn’t know if they’re going to try to take him dead or alive and if this is it, Clint has to let Coulson know how he feels.

“Barton? Barton! _ Clint! Talk to me!_”

His Voice cuts through the haze, “Coulson... Coulson... Phil. I have to tell you. I have to say it. I have to... Phil, I love—”

And then everything goes black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, you only have yourself to blame.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that this is complete I’m adding in my fan space information if you want to follow me anywhere.
> 
> It turns out I am terrible at tumblr; it used to be my main fandom space but then my brain broke and I can’t keep up with it anymore. I would still love it if you followed me, I will follow back, I always love making new fandom friends.
> 
> I’ve set up accounts at the links below, I am going to try to keep all three updated.
> 
> Twitter: @ParaprosdokiaCC  
Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
Patreon: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paraprosdokia (am I doing this right?)


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